(      ':  C,    v  i 

^^^^^•^^-•s/V-^ 


'::  ;         r>€:n  poems 


."&3S, 


A  WINE   OF  WIZARDRY 
AND   OTHER    POEMS 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

AND   OTHER   POEMS 


BY 

GEORGE  STERLING 
AUTHOR    OF    "THE   TESTIMONY    OF    THE    SUNS" 


A.   M.   ROBERTSON 

SAN    FRANCISCO 

1909 


COPYRIGHT 

1908 
BY    GEORGE    STERLING 


-cv 


&u 

%m  •::>;•:  i  •:* 


THE    MURDOCK    PRESS 


TO    MY    UNCLE 

FRANK  C.  HAVENS 

OF 
OAKLAND,  CALIFORNIA 


32724; 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 9 

THE   ISLANDS  OF  THE   BLEST 21 

THE   LOVER  WAITS 24 

TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 28 

IN  EXTREMIS 29 

ROMANCE 3° 

THE  FOREST  MOTHER 31 

A  VIOLET 38 

THE  WILD  IRIS 39 

TO  AN  ELDER  POET 41 

THE  HOMING  OF  DRAKE 42 

THE  CLOUD 44 

THREE  SONNETS  ON  OBLIVION — 

OBLIVION 46 

THE  DUST  DETHRONED 47 

THE  NIGHT  OF  GODS 48 

HELEN   PETERSON       ........  49 

TASSO  TO  LEONORA 5 l 

OF  AMERICA 60 

BEAUTY 63 


CONTENTS 

PAPF 

THE  SOUL  PRISMATIC     .     .     .     .     .     .     .64 

PRIDE  AND  CONSCIENCE 65 

AN  APRIL  MORNING 66 

THE  SIREN'S  SONG,  FROM  "DUANDON"     .     .  67 

MADRIGAL 69 

TO  INA  COOLBRITH yO 

A   MOOD «~ 

A   VISITOR «4 

A  DREAM  OF  FEAR yy 

NIGHT   IN    HEAVEN 82 

PERSONAL   SONNETS — 

TO  MY  WIFE  AS  MAY  QUEEN      .        .        .        .85 

TO  AMBROSE  BIERCE 86 

NORA    MAY    FRENCH 87 

TO  ROBT.  I.  AITKEN,  SCULPTOR     ...  88 

TO   CHAS.   ROLLO   PETERS,    PAINTER      .       .  89 

THE  MAN  I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN      ....  90 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 93 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 


"When  mountains  were  stained  as  with  wine 
By  the  dawning  of  Time,  and  as  wine 
Were  the  seas."  AMBROSE  BIERCE. 

Without,  the  battlements  of  sunset  shine, 

'Mid  domes  the  sea-winds  rear  and  overwhelm. 

Into  a  crystal  cup  the  dusky  wine 

I  pour,  and,  musing  at  so  rich  a  shrine, 

I  watch  the  star  that  haunts  its  ruddy  gloom. 

Now  Fancy,  empress  of  a  purpled  realm, 

Awakes  with  brow  caressed  by  poppy-bloom, 

And  wings  in  sudden  dalliance  her  flight 

To  strands  where  opals  of  the  shattered  light 

Gleam  in  the  wind-strewn  foam,  and  maidens  flee 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

A  little  past  the  striving  billows'  reach, 
Or  seek  the  russet  mosses  of  the  sea, 
And  wrinkled  shells  that  lure  along  the  beach, 
And  please  the  heart  of  Fancy;  yet  she  turns, 
Tho'  trembling,  to  a  grotto  rosy-sparred, 
Where  wattled  monsters  redly  gape,  that  guard 
A  cowled  magician  peering  on  the  damned 
Thro'  vials  wherein  a  splendid  poison  burns, 
Sifting  Satanic  gules  athwart  his  brow. 
So  Fancy  will  not  gaze  with  him,  and  now 
She  wanders  to  an  iceberg  oriflammed 
With  rayed,  auroral  guidons  of  the  North- 
Wherein  hath  winter  hidden  ardent  gems 
And  treasuries  of  frozen  anadems, 
Alight  with  timid  sapphires  of  the  snow. 
But  she  would  dream  of  warmer  gems,  and  so 
Ere  long  her  eyes  in  fastnesses  look  forth 
O'er  blue  profounds  mysterious  whence  glow 
The  coals  of  Tartarus  on  the  moonless  air, 
As  Titans  plan  to  storm  Olympus'  throne, 

10 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

'Mid  pulse  of  dungeoned  forges  down  the  stunned, 
Undominated  firmament,  and  glare 
Of  Cyclopean  furnaces  unsunned. 

Then  hastens  she  in  refuge  to  a  lone, 
Immortal  garden  of  the  eastern  hours, 
Where  Dawn  upon  a  pansy's  breast  hath  laid 
A  single  tear,  and  whence  the  wind  hath  flown 
And  left  a  silence.     Far  on  shadowy  tow'rs 
Droop  blazoned  banners,  and  the  woodland  shade, 
With  leafy  flames  and  dyes  autumnal  hung, 
Makes  beautiful  the  twilight  of  the  year. 
For  this  the  fays  will  dance,  for  elfin  cheer. 
Within  a  dell  where  some  mad  girl  hath  flung 
A  bracelet  that  the  painted  lizards  fear- 
Red  pyres  of  muffled  light  1     Yet  Fancy  spurns 
The  revel,  and  to  eastern  hazard  turns, 
And  glaring  beacons  of  the  Soldan's  shores, 
When  in  a  Syrian  treasure-house  she  pours, 
From  caskets  rich  and  amethystine  urns, 


ii 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

Dull  fires  of  dusty  jewels  that  have  bound 
The  brows  of  naked  Ashtaroth  around. 
Or  hushed,  at  fall  of  some  disastrous  night, 
When  sunset,  like  a  crimson  throat  to  hell, 
Is  cavernous,  she  marks  the  seaward  flight 
Of  homing  dragons  dark  upon  the  West; 
Till,  drawn  by  tales  the  winds  of  ocean  tell, 
And  mute  amid  the  splendors  of  her  quest, 
To  some  red  city  of  the  Djinns  she  flees 
And,  lost  in  palaces  of  silence,  sees 
Within  a  porphyry  crypt  the  murderous  light 
Of  garnet-crusted  lamps  whereunder  sit 
Perturbed  men  that  tremble  at  a  sound, 
And  ponder  words  on  ghastly  vellum  writ, 
In  vipers'  blood,  to  whispers  from  the  night- 
Infernal  rubrics,  sung  to  Satan's  might, 
Or  chaunted  to  the  Dragon  in  his  gyre. 
But  she  would  blot  from  memory  the  sight, 
And  seeks  a  stained  twilight  of  the  South, 
Where  crafty  gnomes  with  scarlet  eyes  conspire 

12 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

To  quench  Aldebaran's  affronting  fire, 
Low  sparkling  just  beyond  their  cavern's  mouth, 
Above  a  wicked  queen's  unhallowed  tomb. 
There  lichens  brown,  incredulous  of  fame, 
Whisper  to  veined  flowers  her  body's  shame, 
'Mid  stillness  of  all  pageantries  of  bloom. 
Within,  lurk  orbs  that  graven  monsters  clasp; 
Red-embered  rubies  smolder  in  the  gloom, 
Betrayed  by  lamps  that  nurse  a  sullen  flame, 
And  livid  roots  writhe  in  the  marble's  grasp, 
As  moaning  airs  invoke  the  conquered  rust 
Of  lordly  helms  made  equal  in  the  dust. 
Without,  where  baleful  cypresses  make  rich 
The  bleeding  sun's  phantasmagoric  gules, 
Are  fungus-tapers  of  the  twilight  witch 
(Seen  by  the  bat  above  unfathomed  pools) 
And  tiger-lilies  known  to  silent  ghouls, 
\Vhose  king  hath  digged  a  somber  carcanet 
And  necklaces  with  fevered  opals  set. 
But  Fancy,  well  affrighted  at  his  gaze, 

13 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

Flies  to  a  violet  headland  of  the  West, 

About  whose  base  the  sun-lashed  billows  blaze, 

Ending  in  precious  foam  their  fatal  quest, 

As  far  below  the  deep-hued  ocean  molds, 

With  waters'  toil  and  polished  pebbles'  fret, 

The  tiny  twilight  in  the  jacinth  set, 

The  wintry  orb  the  moonstone-crystal  holds, 

Snapt  coral  twigs  and  winy  agates  wet, 

Translucencies  of  jasper,  and  the  folds 

Of  banded  onyx,  and  vermilion  breast 

Of  cinnabar.     Anear  on  orange  sands, 

With  prows  of  bronze  the  sea-stained  galleys  rest, 

And  swarthy  mariners  from  alien  strands 

Stare  at  the  red  horizon,  for  their  eyes 

Behold  a  beacon  burn  on  evening  skies, 

As  fed  with  sanguine  oils  at  touch  of  night. 

Forth  from  that  pharos-flame  a  radiance  flies, 

To  spill  in  vinous  gleams  on  ruddy  decks; 

And  overside,  when  leap  the  startled  waves 

And  crimson  bubbles  rise  from  battle-wrecks, 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

Unresting  hydras  wrought  of  bloody  light 
Dip  to  the  ocean's  phosphorescent  caves. 

So  Fancy's  carvel  seeks  an  isle  afar, 

Led  by  the  Scorpion's  rubescent  star, 

Until  in  templed  zones  she  smiles  to  see 

Black  incense  glow,  and  scarlet-bellied  snakes 

Sway  to  the  tawny  flutes  of  sorcery. 

There  priestesses  in  purple  robes  hold  each 

A  sultry  garnet  to  the  sea-linkt  sun, 

Or,  just  before  the  colored  morning  shakes 

A  splendor  on  the  ruby-sanded  beach, 

Cry  unto  Betelguese  a  mystic  word. 

But  Fancy,  amorous  of  evening,  takes 

Her  flight  to  groves  whence  lustrous  rivers  run, 

Thro'  hyacinth,  a  minster  wall  to  gird, 

Where,  in  the  hushed  cathedral's  jeweled  gloom, 

Ere  Faith  return,  and  azure  censers  fume, 

She  kneels,  in  solemn  quietude,  to  mark 

The  suppliant  day  from  gorgeous  oriels  float 

15 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

And  altar-lamps  immure  the  deathless  spark; 
Till,  all  her  dreams  made  rich  with  fervent  hues, 
She  goes  to  watch,  beside  a  lurid  moat, 
The  kingdoms  of  the  afterglow  suffuse 
A  sentinel  mountain  stationed  toward  the  night — 
Whose  broken  tombs  betray  their  ghastly  trust, 
Till  bloodshot  gems  stare  up  like  eyes  of  lust. 
And  now  she  knows,  at  agate  portals  bright, 
How  Circe  and  her  poisons  have  a  home, 
Carved  in  one  ruby  that  a  Titan  lost, 
Where  icy  philters  brim  with  scarlet  foam, 
'Mid  hiss  of  oils  in  burnished  caldrons  tost, 
While  thickly  from  her  prey  his  life-tide  drips, 
In  turbid  dyes  that  tinge  her  torture-dome; 
As  craftily  she  gleans  her  deadly  dews, 
With  gyving  spells  not  Pluto's  queen  can  use, 
Or  listens  to  her  victim's  moan,  and  sips 
Her  darkest  wine,  and  smiles  with  wicked  lips. 
Nor  comes  a  god  with  any  power  to  break 
The  red  alembics  whence  her  gleaming  broths 


16 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

Obscenely  fume,  as  asp  or  adder  froths, 
To  lethal  mists  whose  writhing  vapors  make 
Dim  augury,  till  shapes  of  men  that  were 
Point,  weeping,  at  tremendous  dooms  to  be, 
When  pillared  pomps  and  thrones  supreme  shall  stir, 
Unstable  as  the  foam-dreams  of  the  sea. 

But  Fancy  still  is  fugitive,  and  turns 

To  caverns  where  a  demon  altar  burns, 

And  Satan,  yawning  on  his  brazen  seat, 

Fondles  a  screaming  thing  his  fiends  have  flayed, 

Ere  Lilith  come  his  indolence  to  greet, 

Who  leads  from  hell  his  whitest  queens,  arrayed 

In  chains  so  heated  at  their  master's  fire 

That  one  new-damned  had  thought  their  bright  attire 

Indeed  were  coral,  till  the  dazzling  dance 

So  terribly  that  brilliance  shall  enhance. 

But  Fancy  is  unsatisfied,  and  soon 

She  seeks  the  silence  of  a  vaster  night, 

Where  powers  of  wizardry,  with  faltering  sight 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

(Whenas  the  hours  creep  farthest  from  the  noon) 

Seek  by  the  glow-worm's  lantern  cold  and  dull 

A  crimson  spider  hidden  in  a  skull, 

Or  search  for  mottled  vines  with  berries  white, 

Where  waters  mutter  to  the  gibbous  moon. 

There,  clothed  in  cerements  of  malignant  light, 

A  sick  enchantress  scans  the  dark  to  curse, 

Beside  a  caldron  vext  with  harlots'  blood, 

The  stars  of  that  red  Sign  which  spells  her  doom, 

Then  Fancy  cleaves  the  palmy  skies  adverse 
To  sunset  barriers.     By  the  Ganges'  flood 
She  sees,  in  her  dim  temple,  Siva  loom 
And,  visioned  with  a  monstrous  ruby,  glare 
On  distant  twilight  where  the  burning-ghaut 
Is  lit  with  glowering  pyres  that  seem  the  eyes 
Of  her  abhorrent  dragon-worms  that  bear 
The  pestilence,  by  Death  in  darkness  wrought. 
So  Fancy's  wings  forsake  the  Asian  skies, 
And  now  her  heart  is  curious  of  halls 


18 


A  WINE  OF  WIZARDRY 

In  which  dead  Merlin's  prowling  ape  hath  spilt 

A  vial  squat  whose  scarlet  venom  crawls 

To  ciphers  bright  and  terrible,  that  tell 

The  sins  of  demons  and  the  encharneled  guilt 

That  breathes  a  phantom  at  whose  cry  the  owl, 

Malignly  mute  above  the  midnight  well, 

Is  dolorous,  and  Hecate  lifts  her  cowl 

To  mutter  swift  a  minatory  rune; 

And,  ere  the  tomb-thrown  echoings  have  ceased, 

The  blue-eyed  vampire,  sated  at  her  feast, 

Smiles  bloodily  against  the  leprous  moon. 

But  evening  now  is  come,  and  Fancy  folds 

Her  splendid  plumes,  nor  any  longer  holds 

Adventurous  quest  o'er  stained  lands  and  seas — 

Fled  to  a  star  above  the  sunset  lees, 

O'er  onyx  waters  stilled  by  gorgeous  oils 

That  toward  the  twilight  reach  emblazoned  coils. 

And  I,  albeit  Merlin-sage  hath  said, 

"A  vyper  lurketh  in  ye  wine-cuppe  redde," 

19 


A    WINE    OF    WIZARDRY 

Gaze  pensively  upon  the  way  she  went, 
Drink  at  her  font,  and  smile  as  one  content. 


20 


THE   ISLANDS  OF  THE   BLEST 

In  Carmel  pines  the  summer  wind 

Sings  like  a  distant  sea. 
O  harps  of  green,  your  murmurs  find 

An  echoing  chord  in  me! 

On  Carmel  shore  the  breakers  moan 
Like  pines  that  breast  a  gale. 

O  whence,  ye  winds  and  billows,  flown 
To  cry  your  wordless  tale? 

Perchance  the  crimson  sunsets  drown 
In  waters  whence  ye  sped; 

Perchance  the  sinking  stars  go  down 
To  seek  the  Isles  ye  fled. 


21 


THE  ISLANDS  OF  THE  BLEST 

Sometimes  from  ocean  dusks  I  seem 
To  glimpse  their  crystal  walls, 

Dim  jewels  of  mirage  that  gleam 
In  twilight's  western  halls. 

Sometimes  I  hear  below  the  moon 

A  music  that  pursues — 
A  wraith  of  melody,  that  soon 

I  doubt,  and  doubting,  lose. 

Those  palmy  shores  no  prow  may  find, 

But  once  it  seemed  to  me 
A  ghost  of  fragrance  roamed  the  wind, 

Yet  was  not  of  the  sea. 

What  tho'  my  tale  the  seaman  scorns? 

The  Chart  of  Dreams,  unrolled, 
Attests  their  haven's  jasper  bourns, 

Their  reefs  of  sunken  gold. 

22 


THE  ISLANDS  OF  THE  BLEST 

I  do  not  know  what  lonely  strands 

Await  the  winged  star; 
I  only  know  their  evening  sands 

Seem  wonderful  and  far. 


THE   LOVER   WAITS 

This  is  her  home!  and  oh,  my  homeless  heart! 

Mine  eyes  fill,  for  I  know  that  yonder  light 

Assures  her  loveliness  to  other  eyes.  .  .  . 

The  stars  go  down.     I  hear  the  whimpering  owl, 

And  little  winds  go  past  me  in  the  dark, 

Softly,  afraid  to  wake  the  drowsing  oaks 

That  guard  her  home  with  rough  but  faithful  breasts. 

Ah  me!  that  mine  were  sleeping  at  their  roots — 

Too  still  to  fear,  as  now,  her  smallest  scorn. 

The  dews  descend.     The  breath  of  flowers  that  die 

Ascends.    They  mingle  in  the  tender  night 

To  some  faint,  holy  symbol  of  her  soul.  .  .  . 

The  rose  must  pass,  the  starlight  of  the  dew.  .  .  . 

There  's  little  comfort  in  the  stars  to-night, 

Tho'  Venus,  o'er  the  mountain,  glows  like  fire 

Spilt  from  the  censer  of  the  Pleiades.  .  .  . 

24 


THE  LOVER  WAITS 

I  think  this  waiting  will  wear  out  my  heart; 
But  ever  't  was,  that  he  who  loves  must  wait— 
'T  is  part  of  all  Love's  hunger,  nor  would  I 
Forego  one  gleam  of  his  irradiant  wings: 
His  pains  are  sweeter  than  another's  joy.  .  .  . 
The  stars  to-night  seem  curious,  and  peer 
Beyond  the  unstirring  leaves,  as  tho'  to  say: 
"Lover,  alas!  we  Ve  seen  all  this  before, 
And  know  the  silence  that  must  end  it  all." 
But  they — the  night  of  God  shall  still  them  each 
Who  give  me  now  their  pity  or  their  scorn, 
And  deem  that  love  is  naught  because  it  dies. 
Little  they  know  the  wings  that  wait  its  Dream! 
I'd  sift  the  constellations  for  her  brow, 
To  leave  her  crowned  forever.     Foolish  lights, 
I  tell  you  that  her  eyes  are  Love's  despair, 
And  all  her  beauty  pain  for  very  gods, 
So  fair  is  she!     But  she  will  not  come  forth 
And  let  my  heart  forget  that  you  exist 
Or  land  or  sea— only  that  Eden's  mine, 


- 


THE  LOVER  WAITS 

And  she  and  I  alone  there.  .  .  .  Now  I'll  dream 
That  some  great  rose  has  died,  and  that  its  soul 
Goes  by  me  on  the  night — goes  by  to  God, 
Who  has  all  beauty  in  His  gift,  and  gave 
More  to  my  Sweet  than  to  the  flowers  she  loves ! 
'T  is  true  she  thinks  me  mad,  nor  yet  believes 
What  chains  mine  eyes  have  fashioned  for  my  heart, 
Deeming  that  it  should  fathom  first  her  own 
And  find  what 's  there :   I  scorn  so  cautious  love ! 
Better  delusion  than  a  heart  that  plots, 
And  chaffers  first  with  Love  to  find  the  cost: 
I'll  fence  with  Death,  but  Love  shall  have  me  blind. 
Yet  't  is  as  well  that  woman's  breast  should  house 
The  inherited  Misgiving.     Still  for  her 
Love  is  too  oft  a  sexton  at  the  last.  .  .  . 
Thank  God  there  is  no  moon  to  make  me  ghosts 
Among  the  blossoms  of  the  orchard-trees! 
For  I've  my  dead — few,  but  a  sleepless  lot. 
'T  is  only  woman  living  makes  one  wait 
And  question  all  one's  stars.     Ye  trees,  there  's  that 

26 


THE  LOVER  W A ITS 

Your  roots  cannot  detain.  A  truce  to  this! 
Shall  night  enmingle  with  my  very  blood — 
And  such  a  night?  But  listen,  O  ye  trees! 
Are  those  her  footfalls,  or  my  leaping  heart? 


27 


TO  EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 

Time,  who  but  jests  with  sword  and  sovereignty, 
Confirming  these  as  phantoms  in  his  gloom 
Or  bubbles  that  his  arid  hours  consume, 

Shall  mold  an  undeparting  light  of  thee — 

A  star  whereby  futurity  shall  see 

How  Song's  eventual  majesties  illume, 
Beyond  Augustan  pomp  or  battle-doom, 

Her  annals  of  abiding  heraldry. 

Time,  tho'  his  mordant  ages  gnaw  the  crag, 
Shall  blot  no  hue  from  thy  seraphic  wings 

Nor  vex  thy  crown  and  choral  glories  won, 
Albeit  the  solvents  of  Oblivion  drag 

To  dust  the  sundered  sepulchers  of  kings, 
In  desolations  splendid  with  the  sun. 


28 


IN   EXTREMIS 

Till  dawn  the  Winds'  insuperable  throng 
Passed  over  like  archangels  in  their  might, 
With  roar  of  chariots  from  their  stormy  height, 

And  broken  thunder  of  mysterious  song — 

By  mariner  or  sentry  heard  along 

The  star-usurping  battlements  of  night— 
And  wafture  of  immeasurable  flight, 

And  high-blown  trumpets  mutinous  and  strong. 

Till  louder  on  the  dreadful  dark  I  heard 
The  shrieking  of  the  tempest-tortured  tree, 

And  deeper  on  immensity  the  call 
And  tumult  of  the  empire-forging  sea; 
But  near  the  eternal  Peace  I  lay,  nor  stirred, 
Knowing  the  happy  dead  hear  not  at  all. 


29 


ROMANCE 

Thou  passest,  and  we  know  thec  not,  Romance ! 

Thy  gaze  is  backward,  and  thy  heart  is  fed 

With  murmurs  and  with  music  of  the  dead. 
Alas,  our  battle !    for  the  rays  that  glance 
On  thy  dethroning  sword  and  haughty  lance 

Are  of  forgotten  suns  and  stars  long  fled; 

Thou  weavest  phantom  roses  for  thy  head, 
And  ghostly  queens  in  thy  dominion  dance. 

Would  we  might  follow  thy  returning  wings, 
And  in  thy  farthest  haven  beach  our  prow — 
Thy  dragons  conquered  and  thine  oceans 

crossed — 

And  find  thee  standing  on  the  dust  of  kings, 
A  lion  at  thy  side,  and  on  thy  brow 

The  light  of  sunsets  wonderful  and  lost  I 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

Athlon  the  king  bade  silence  to  his  harps, 
Which  murmured  for  a  little,  and  were  mute. 
Then,  gazing  shrewdly  on  his  men-of-war, 
Whose  armor,  scattered  in  the  banquet-hall, 
Cast  back  the  lurching  torch-light,  hoarsely  spake: 
"Methinks  where  War  drew  bronze  athwart  your 

cheeks 

Love  hath  sown  lilies,  and  your  sinews  shrink, 
Lax  with  the  feast.    And  not  with  lutes  and  wine 
Won  ye  my  strongholds  and  the  guarded  hills. 
Your  horses  please  you  not,  but  daintier  steeds, 
And  strife  of  happy  loins.    So  grow  ye  soft. 
Wherefore,  this  month,  when  dawn  beholds  the  moon 
A  ghost,  I  call  your  swords  to  cleaner  war, 
To  peril,  and  high  battle  with  its  toils. 
But  lest  ye  think  I  chide  unwitting,  list! 
I  tell  a  happening  of  younger  years. 

3' 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

"I,  Athlon,  as  ye  know,  be  mountain-born, 
And  suckled  at  the  torrent.     Of  our  blood 
Was  never  sage  nor  priest.     Not  seaward  roamed 
A  stormier  breed.     Nor  is  it  strange  we  wrought 
Ever  to-north  dominion,  and  with  steel, 
And  herald  arrow  whispering  our  law, 
Pushed  out  our  straining  borders,  till  at  last 
Corvannon  fell,  and  all  our  foeman's  line. 
Thereafter,  my  red  father  at  that  sack 
Being  fallen,  I  was  king,  and  held  my  state 
In  Gurth  his  treasure-city.     Such  the  fear 
Our  lances  bred,  that  for  a  prudent  space 
The  land  had  quiet,  while  with  crafts  and  lore 
I  labored,  and  was  Beauty's  servitor 
In  pleasant  places,  being  likewise  chief 
Of  wary  councils,  and  with  cunning  pact, 
Statecraft,  and  grey  disposal  of  mine  arts 
Wrought  kingship.     As  the  elder  of  you  learnt, 
I  made  carousal  nightly,  and  was  long 
At  banqueting,  and  amorous,  for  these 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

Were  joys  withholden  from  my  youth.    Wherefore 

The  days  ran  merrily.     At  times,  forsooth, 

My  captains  craved  incitements  of  old  war, 

But  I  constrained  their  furies.     Then  they  held 

Hot  tournament,  and  vigors  of  the  chase; 

Yet  would  I  none  of  these,  but,  month  by  month, 

Sat  slothful,  wasting  me  my  needful  nights 

With  wine  and  transient  loves.     I  grew  o'erfond 

Of  luscious  viands,  and  did  hold  my  fool 

Above  mine  armorer.     For  silken  robes 

I  bargained  often  with  sea-faring  men, 

And  drowsed  o^er  written  tales.     So  flew  my  years. 

"One  summer,  when  a  people  had  been  bold, 
My  border  guards  made  foray.    Of  their  spoil 
Was  little  precious  save  a  splendid  girl, 
Held  to  my  pleasure.    Wherefore,  late  one  eve, 
I  sought  her  vigiled  chamber.     At  my  touch, 
This  yellow-haired  barbarian  of  the  hills, 
Upstarting,  flung  me  from  her  scornful  breast. 

33 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

Young-bosomed,  virginal,  she  stood  and  laughed, 
(A  mountain-eagle  glorious  in  her  strength), 
Held  my  desire  at  arm's-length,  and  made  mock 
At  me,  so  fain  to  close  with  her.     Behold! 
She  stood  the  stronger!     Sneering  then,  she  cried: 
'Thine  eyes  are  sick !    Thy  breath  is  foul  with  wine ! 
Go  nest  thee  with  thy  harlots!     Soft  thy  limbs — 
Kiss  softer,  an  thou  find'st  them!     Northern  mail 
Would  flay  thy  skin,  and  outland  winds  thy  cheek ! 
Get  hither!'     I,  remembering  past  might — 
How  once  I  could  have  held  her  helpless — raged, 
Yet  in  the  end  departed,  vainly  wroth. 

"Then  thought  I  of  my  mother  of  the  hills, 

Of  that  calm  strength  wherefrom  mine  own  had  birth, 

Her  hands  so  blest  with  healing,  and  her  lips 

Silent  with  wisdom.    Yea !     I  would  go  forth, 

Regain  that  younger  home,  abide  in  peace, 

And  haunt  the  quietude  of  ancient  woods, 

Then  seek  my  city  even  as  once  I  came, 

34 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

The  war-horse  mad  beneath  me,  in  my  grasp 
The  shearing  axe,  and  on  my  head  the  helm, 
Red-gleaming  like  Arcturus  ere  he  mount 
The  midnight,  when  the  rain  has  washed  the  dark. 

"So  sought  I  then  my  mother's  dwelling.     She, 
Whom  other  sons  had  sorrowed,  gazed  awhile, 
And  smiling  sadly  at  the  lines  that  Love 
And  Care  had  graven,  told  me  all  her  mind, 
Speaking  me  plain,  who  was  no  king  to  her, 
But  greedy  Athlon,  pertest  of  her  brood. 

"Thereafter  I  was  guardian  and  serf 

Of  that  grey  house;  did  hew  and  draw,  did  face 

Those  vaster  hills,  and  swam  their  coldest  streams. 

I  harried  fierce  their  wild  and  furry  kind, 

And  sought  me  mountain  sunsets,  and  the  dawn, 

Seen  beyond  eastern  snows.     My  counsellors 

Were  learned  trees,  wise-whispering.     I  grew 

As  rough  as  they,  as  kindly.     Their  domain 


35 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

Was  fair  with  holy  twilights  and  the  hush 
Of  night  long-lingering.     About  their  feet 
The  brook  remembered  legends  of  their  youth, 
And  younger  dawnings.     Fitfully  they  mourned, 
Responsive,  as  the  unreturning  wind 
Cried  from  their  mighty  heart-strings,  and  the  dusk 
Found  kindred  voices.     Well  my  mother  knew 
The  hurts  of  men,  what  balms  had  gentlest  touch 
And  wrought  the  cleanlier.     She,  faithful,  loved 
The  man  within  that  form  which  cities  shape, 
And  knew  his  follies.     When  I   fain  had  kissed 
Her  serving-maids,  she  laughed  aloud  and  said: 
'Haste  hillward,  son,  and  hug  the  willing  bear!' 
And  when  my  hands  would  steal  her  cellared  wine, 
(The  blood  of  niggard  slopes),  she  said:  'Drink  first 
Our  upland  lake,   fed  sweet  from  distant  snows. 
That  gone,  thou  shalt  have  darker  vintage.'     I, 
So  counselled,  stood  a-grin  like  any  oaf. 

"Thus  with  her  pure  medicaments  she  wrought; 

36 


THE  FOREST  MOTHER 

Then,  when  the  pulse  had  slacked  and  sinews  drawn, 

And  saner  blood  wrought  morning  on  my  face, 

She  said:    'Go  hence,  my  boy,  for  noble  cares 

Await  thee,  and  the  duties  of  the  crown. 

Yet  stay  not  always  in  thy  courts,  but  come 

Often,  and  seek  the  music  of  my  home, 

Its  dews  and  shadows,  fragrances  and  calm, 

Its  moonlight,  and  the  stars  that  watch  thy  sleep.' 

So  came  I  to  my  halls,  and  her  that  dwelt 

Therein,  well-guarded  by  my  sentinels." 

Thus  spake  the  king,  and  signalled  to  his  harps; 
But  swiftly  on  the  silence  that  was  come, 
"Didst  master  her?"  cried  one  among  his  lords. 
To  whom  the  king,  rem'niscent  in  his  beard: 
"In  twenty  years  she  gat  me  nine  great  sons, 
Greedy  for  battle."     Then,  with  mournful  voice, 
"Our  other  nine  were  daughters,"  quoth  the  king. 


37 


A  VIOLET 

Thee,  of  her  frail  and  tender  brood 

Frailest  and  tenderest, 
Earth  holds   (prophetic  motherhood!) 

The  closest  to  her  breast. 


THE  WILD   IRIS 

Afar  the  silent  clouds  go  by, 

And  snows  of  cloud  and  stain  of  sky 

Within  my  lowly  bosom  lie. 

The  heedless  sky  unchanging  stands; 
The  clouds  drift  on  to  distant  lands; 
Man  comes  and  takes  me  in  his  hands. 


We  pass.     The  lonely  heavens  abide. 
From  gulfs  unknown  that  mock  his  pride 
He  turns  to  see  me  at  his  side. 

What  stirs  him  so  he  can  not  say: 
I  stand  along  his  troubled  way 
No  less  a  mystery  than  they. 


39 


THE  WILD  IRIS 

Kin  to  the  mortal  flower  that  grows 
To  fade,  he  droops  at  last;  he  goes 
To  deeper  peace  than  Nature  knows. 

'T  is  meet  I  share  his  rest,  for  he, 
Alone  of  living  things  that  be 
Of  earth,  has  given  love  to  me. 


40 


TO  AN   ELDER   POET 

Now  stir  the  blossoms  in  the  grass; 
But  oh!  the  fadeless  flowers  you  bring 
Are  children  of  a  wilder  Spring, 

And  pass  not  tho'  the  seasons  pass. 

Their  breath  along  the  Singing-Way 
Is  more  of  rapture  than  of  rest; 
The  undeparting  blooms  attest 

What  rains  and  winds  of  yesterday! 


THE  HOMING  OF  DRAKE 

DRAKE'S  BAY,  SEPTEMBER  29,  1579. 
Was  it  the  night  that  foiled  his  daring  eyes, 
Or  passed  he  in  the  blindness  of  the  fog 
To-south,  nor  dreamt  what  keep  of  empire  stood 
So  near  his  grasp?     I  can  but  deem  it  strange 
That  God  withheld  from  England  in  that  hour 
The  incomparable  haven,  that  His  veils 
Were  somehow  on  the  insatiate  sight  of  Drake, 
So  that  the  land  is  not  to-day  her  dow'r— 
She,  fostered  since  by  all  His  winds  and  tides! 
For  then,  as  now,  the  Port  lay  vast  with  peace, 
The  hills  were  wardens  of  the  far-sought  gold, 
And  streams  were  glad  in  valleys  unprofaned, 
Rich  as  that  France  she  harried.     Had  he  seen, 
In  time  his  tale  had  set  her  out-post  here, 
Guard  of  the  coast  forever.     But  his  eyes 
Were  holden,  and  our  waters  checked  him  not— 


THE  HOMING  OF  DRAKE 

For  leagues  beyond  the  grey  and  desolate  Gate 

Stained  from  swart  rivers!     Saw  he  not  the  clue? 

Nay,  blind  to  empire  sundered  from  his  sight, 

He  passed,  the  intrepid,  and  the  Golden  Hind, 

A  waif  in  hostile  deserts  of  the  deep, 

Fled  homeward,  to  such  issues  as  are  told, 

When  but  a  glance,  or  quickening  of  the  sense, 

Had  shattered  thrones,  and  rent  the  bourns  of  rule, 

And  broken  crowned  fames,  and_$axmed  thejcourse       I4 

Of  all  the  tides  of  conquest  round  the  world. 

The  Fates  have  mighty  darkness  at  their  seats, 
Nor  use  revealing  stars.     Wherefore  to  us 
Time's  sea  is  strange,  nor  learn  we  to  what  Law 
Our  needle  veers,  nor  witness,  for  the  Dark, 
What  Shapes  inscrutable  stand  at  the  helm, 
Nor  whence  (amazed)  the  ordaining  winds  that  urge 
Our  keels  to  harbors  other  than  we  dream. 


43 


THE  CLOUD 

Said  the  cloud,  "I  am  weary  of  flight 
And  the  wind's  imperious  reign: 

I  will  foil  forever  his  might; 

I  will  rest  from  striving  and  pain ; 

I  will  pass  to  the  peace  of  night." 

And  she  sank  in  rain  to  the  mead; 

But  her  tears  were  life  to  the  lands, 
And  she  came  as  a  voice  to  the  seed, 

And  she  came  with  weal  in  her  hands 
To  the  fainting  flower's  need. 

In  the  secret  caverns  of  earth, 
In  the  groping  veins  of  the  soil, 

She  fashioned  the  dust  of  dearth, 
In  faith  and  vision  of  toil, 

To  the  harvest  of  Autumn's  mirth. 


44 


THE  CLOUD 

Her  strength  was  holden  and  tried, 
Her  heart  to  service  was  true, 

Till  the  roots  of  the  grass  were  guide 
To  the  day's  remembered  blue, 

Where  the  winds  of  Spring  were  wide. 

And  she  spread  her  wings  to  the  sun, 
And  she  rose  again  on  the  air, 

Till  her  wings  with  the  light  were  one 
In  a  sunset  strange  and  fair, 

Where  the  winds  forever  run. 


45 


THREE   SONNETS   ON   OBLIVION 
Dedicated  to  Mr.  Raphael  Weill 

OBLIVION 

Her  eyes  have  seen  the  monoliths  of  kings 

Upcast  like  foam  of  the  effacing  tide; 

She  hath  beheld  the  desert  stars  deride 
The  monuments  of  Power's  imaginings — 
About  their  base  the  wind  Assyrian  flings 

The  dust  that  throned  the  satrap  in  his  pride; 

Cambyses  and  the  Memphian  pomps  abide 
As  in  the  flame  the  moth's  presumptuous  wings. 

There  gleams  no  glory  that  her  hand  shall  spare, 
Nor  any  sun  whose  rays  shall  cross  her  night, 

Whose  realm  enfolds  man's  empire  and  its  end. 
No  armor  of  renown  her  sword  shall  dare, 
No  council  of  the  gods  withstand  her  might: 
Stricken  at  last  Time's  lonely  Titans  bend. 


THREE  SONNETS  ON  OBLIVION 


THE   DUST  DETHRONED 

Sargon  is  dust,  Semiramis  a  clod! 

In  crypts  profaned  the  moon  at  midnight  peers; 

The  owl  upon  the  Sphinx  hoots  in  her  ears, 
And  scant  and  sear  the  desert  grasses  nod 
Where  once  the  armies  of  Assyria  trod, 

With  younger  sunlight  splendid  on  the  spears; 

The  lichens  cling  the  closer  with  the  years, 
And  seal  the  eyelids  of  the  weary  god. 

Where  high  the  tombs  of  royal  Egypt  heave, 
The  vulture  shadows  with  arrested  wings 
The  indecipherable  boasts  of  kings, 

As  Arab  children  hear  their  mother's  cry 
And  leave  in  mockery  their  toy — they  leave 
The  skull  of  Pharaoh  staring  at  the  sky. 


47 


THREE  SONNETS  ON  OBLIVION 


THE   NIGHT  OF  GODS 
Their  mouths  have  drunken  the  eternal  wine — 

The  draught  that  Baal  in  oblivion  sips. 

Unseen  about  their  courts  the  adder  slips, 
Unheard  the  sucklings  of  the  leopard  whine; 
The  toad  has  found  a  resting-place  divine 

And  bloats  in  stupor  between  Ammon's  lips. 

O  Carthage  and  the  unreturning  ships, 
The  fallen  pinnacle,  the  shifting  Sign! 

Lo !  when  I  hear  from  voiceless  court  and  fane 
Time's  adoration  of  Eternity — 

The  cry  of  kingdoms  past  and  gods  undone- 
I  stand  as  one  whose  feet  at  noontide  gain 
A  lonely  shore;   who  feels  his  soul  set  free, 
And  hears  the  blind  sea  chanting  to  the  sun. 


48 


HELEN   PETERSON 

DIED  AGED  SEVEN 
We  question  not  what  Faith  beholds, 

Nor  mix  farewell  with  prayer, 
As  now  Eternity  enfolds 

What  Time  beheld  so  fair: 
Sinless  as  any  flower  we  bring 

Art  thou  whom  Heaven  gave; 
Death  never  touched  a  gentler  thing 

Than  thou  whose  peace  we  crave. 

Here  half-consoled  we  kiss  thy  brow 

(We  cannot  speak  our  tears) 
In  gratitude  at  least  that  thou 

Hast  foiled  the  sadder  years, 
Hast  fled  the  years  when  care  and  pain 

Would   greet   thine   elder  breath, 
To  sleep  forever  without  stain, 

How  innocent  in  death ! 


49 


HELEN  PETERSON 

Beyond  our  clasp  thy  soul  must  wait, 

Wiser  than  we  at  last, 
Till  each  attain,  in  peace  as  great, 

The  silence  that  thou  hast; 
Be  then  it  given  each  to  be 

What  now  in  truth  thou  art- 
Pure  love  renewed  by  memory 

In  twilights  of  the  heart. 


TASSO  TO   LEONORA 


FOREWORD 

For  bis  declaration  of  love  to  Leonora  d'Este  (sister  of  his  patron, 
Alfonso  II.  Duke  of  Ferrara),  Torquato  Tasso,  one  of  the  four  great  poets 
of  Italy,  was  confined  for  seven  years  as  a  madman  in  the  hospital  of 
St  Anne,  by  order  of  the  duke.  Leonora  died  on  February  the  tenth,  1581, 
five  years  before  his  release. 


Because  he  wanders  lonely,  without  hope, 
Because  supreme  despair  hath  slain  his  dream, 
Love,  for  his  very  hopelessness,  makes  cry, 
Living  to  thee  a  little  as  a  voice. 

I  know  not  if  thy  heart  can  ever  turn 
To  one  unworthy.     Thy  disdain,  perchance, 
May  come,  and  with  unfaltering  touch  reveal 
The  might  of  chords  that  in  the  spirit  thrill 
To  pain.     And  yet  I  cannot  guard  my  lips 
Forever.     Comes  this  hush  about  the  soul 


T4SSO   TO  LEONORA 
But  for  love's  whisper:    listen  ere  it  pass. 

Thou  seemest  farther  from  me  than  a  star, 
The  morning  star,  that  hovers  like  a  flame 
Above  the  great  dawn-altar.     So  for  this., 
Thy  terrible  remoteness,  must  I  speak. 
And  purer  thou  and  sweeter  than  a  wind 
Whose  wings,  caught  in  an  Eden  of  the  rose, 
Win  through  its  maze  aweary.     So  for  this, 
Thy  purity  and  sweetness,  must  I  speak. 
Because  of  all  the  wonder  that  thou  art 
I  cry  my  love,  lest  suddenly  great  Death 
Go  mad  for  thee,  and  kiss  thy  lips  too  soon. 
And  for  the  very  frailty  of  this  life 
I  cry  my  love.     For  as  the  abiding  sea 
Transpires  a  tiny  firmament  of  foam 
That,  quivering,  mirrors  for  a  space  the  abyss 
Which  was  its  font,  and  that  which  takes  its  soul, 
So  gleams  mortality,  a  trembling  film 
Between  the  deep  within  and  deep  without. 

52 


TASSO   TO  LEONORA 

I,  fearful  lest  thou  take  the  eternal  ways 
And  know  not  I  remain  a  lonely  fire 
Within  the  night  thou  leavest,  call  to  thee. 

Never  had  lover's  dusk  such  moon  as  thou! 

Never  had  moon  adoring  such  as  mine! 

For  at  thy  spirit  in  her  majesty 

Mine  own  is  greatly  humbled,  and  forgets 

Its  haughtiness,  forsaking  at  thy  feet 

Song's  archangelic  panoply  of  light, 

And  sits  a  child  before  thee,  and  is  glad. 

Yea,  though  I  deem  the  silences  of  love 

More  beautiful  than  music,  or  the  hush 

Of  ocean  twilights,  yet  my  soul  to  thine 

Swoons  deaf  and  blind,  with  living  lips  that  ache 

And  cry  to  thee  its  joy  and  wonderment. 

I  would  that  I  were  morning  to  thine  eyes ! 

I  would  that  I  were  honey  in  thy  mouth ! 

I  would  I  might  thrill  through  thee  as  delight, 

And  might  in  fragrance  of  immortal  flow'rs 


53 


TASSO   TO  LEONORA 

Besiege  thee,  and  might  take  all  cadences 
Of  riven  waters  and  of  crying  chords, 
The  voice  of  bird  and  wind  and  threnody, 
The  deep's  slow  thunder,  and  the  murmurings 
Of  fire,  and  might  enthrall  and  mingle  these, 
And  live  to  thee  in  music!     Even  thus 
I,  Tasso,  calling  from  my  throne  of  pain, 
Would  fathom  thee,  who  art  unfathomable, 
And  as  a  sky  my  love  would  compass  thee, 
Who  art  illimitable.     Ah,  low  voice, 
Heard  above  all  the  voices  of  the  day ! 
Ah,  face  imperative  as  sleep,  that  night 
Orbs  to  a  star,  and  mingles  with  my  dreams! 
Ah,  high  despair,  and  hope  of  him  whose  hope 
Is  but  to  clasp  thy  spirit  after  death! 
Though  death  draw  down  this  body,  still  my  soul- 
A  song  between  its  dawn  and  eve  of  time- 
Shall  turn  to  thee  for  memory,  and  lose, 
Unwept,  all  meed  of  evanescent  joy, 
With  thee  its  heritage.     And  though  thy  world, 


54 


TJSSO   TO  LEONORA 

A-storm  in  all  its  citadels  and  courts, 

Bear  thee  beyond  me,  yet  its  darkened  might 

Gives  but  new  might  to  yearning.     Yea,  though  hell 

Arch  over  me  its  hurricanes  of  fire, 

Still  shall  I  love,  nor  falter,  standing  true 

To  that  pure  light  whereof  thou  abidest  shrine, 

For  which  all  else  is  dark,  mine  eyes  being  fixed 

Alway  thereon.     Yet  not  as  they  that  find 

Love  tenderness,  and  sweet  with  pitying  lips, 

Find  I  his  glories,  but  a  thing  of  Hame, 

And  with  fierce  mien  forbidding,  and  with  eyes 

Inexorable,  cairn  with  all  disdain, 

And  with  ungracious  hands,  and  threatening  wings, 

Sad  for  their  cruel  splendor.     Yet  his  voice 

Calls  but  thy  name  unceasingly — thy  name, 

An  echo  in  the  abysses  of  the  heart, 

That  rests  a  time,  now  having  found  its  realm 

All  deeps  and  exaltations  of  unrest.     .     .     . 

Ah,  peace  for  but  a  little !    I  awake, 

55 


T4SSO   TO  LEONOR4 

And  now  again  my  heart  is  made  a  world 

Wherein  the  Titans,  Rapture  and  Despair, 

Do  battle  each  with  each.    Thou  swayest  them, 

Who  art  the  swift  fulfilment  of  all  dreams 

Of  love  in  loneliness — ideals  mute 

The  mind  uplifts  for  worshiping.    Thy  face 

Restores  lost  visions  of  Hellenic  nights 

And  all  their  moons  that  perished.      Nymph    and 

queen 

Live  in  thee :   thou  art  that  Persephone — 
Torn  from  the  clasping  day — whose  maiden  eyes, 
'Mid  one  deep  murmur  of  Plutonian  harps, 
Greatened  in  retrospection.     Daphne  thou ; 
Psyche  that  waits  her  lover  in  the  night; 
Calypso  and  the  luring  of  her  lyres. 

Nay!   Thou  art  more  than  these,  howbeit  their  souls 

Stir  in  thee.     In  humility  I  come, 

I  call,  I  pray,  O  whiter  than  the  snows 

Of  orient  and  cloudland  cold  with  dawn! 


TASSO   TO  LEONORA 

Thy  light  is  from  afar,  and  thine  the  heights 
The  stainless  know.     Ah !  fallen  from  its  skies, 
My  darker  soul  calls  from  its  distances 
And  shadows  unendurable.     Judge  thou 
Its  worship,  and  the  hunger  thou  hast  made, 
That  I,  from  darkness  and  my  little  worth, 
Dare  tell  thee  my  adoring.     But  I  wait, 
And  dawn  comes  drifting  on  its  golden  tides, 
Or  dawn  comes  later  from  reluctant  mist, 
Yet  thou  a  stranger  still  to  me,  and  night 
Comes,  though  it  brings  not  slumber,  yet  no  voice 
In  me  a  desert.    And  the  barren  years 
Darken  beyond  us,  and  the  silence  grows 
Unto  a  mystery  foreshadowing 
The  sorrows  of  the  world.     Eternity 
Draws  nearer  with  its  answers,  and  I  seem 
A  wandering  echo  in  the  night  of  Change, 
The  ghost  of  something  futile  and  forgot, 
A  star  lost  from  the  sister  lights.     Unrest 
Gives  me  thy  face  for  slumber,  and  the  day 

57 


T4SSO   TO  LEONORA 

Thy  destinies  as  dream.     And  memory 
Strives  backward  for  thee  to  the  dark  of  birth, 
And  seeks  the  light  of  antenatal  life- 
Finding  thee  almost,  for  thy  haunting  face 
Thrills  with  the  rose  of  unremembered  dawns, 
Thine  eyes  hold  azure  of  a  younger  sea, 
The  depths  of  thine  incomparable  hair 
Twilights  in  which  we  parted,  and  thy  voice 
The  grief  and  music  of  forgotten  lives. 

It  may  be  that  my  lips  shall  never  touch 

Ihe  cup  of  love  brimmed  with  its  quivering  wine; 

Yet  sit  I  crowned,  splendor  invisible 

Upon  me,  happy  that  I  turn  from  Time 

Holding  one  dream  found  perfect.     It  may  be, 

As  now,  that  until  death  my  yearning  arms 

Shall  seek  thee  only  in  dream-paradise, 

O  pearl  of  oceans  infinite !  that  Love 

Sit  alway  in  unchanging  solitude, 

And  call  unheard;    that  nightward  thou  wilt  turn, 

58 


T4SSO   TO  LEONORA 

Nor  wilt  remember,  save  for  pitying, 

My  world  left  mist  and  ashes.     Still  my  soul 

Hath  known  thee,  and  may  summon:    Memory, 

Life's  shadow,  holds  forever  at  her  heart 

The  beautiful  that  passeth.     I  am  glad, 

And,  homeless  for  Eternity,  have  rest 

In  thee  for  Time.     Had  I  thy  very  scorn, 

Yet  were  I  richer,  and  might  smile  in  tears, 

Clasping  the  painx  immortal  things  must  know. 

Think  not  my  lips  would  harm  thee:  all  my  heart 

Trembles  to  thine,  and,  rather  far  than  Love 

Found  sorrow  or  nepenthe,  at  thy  feet 

Would  lie  as  dust  that  gathered  to  a  rose, 

And  died  in  silence,  and  was  dust  again. 


59 


OF  AMERICA 

JANUARY   1ST,    1908 

Cry  some,  in  seeming  wisdom  of  the  hour: 
"Not  Babylon,  nor  Karnak  in  her  pomp, 
Knew  fairer  paths  to  doom  than  thou.    Thy  skies 
Are  gentleness.      Incessantly  the  Fates 
Hold  thee  in  kindest  scrutiny.     Thy  feet 
Tread  sunward,  God  being  wroth  with  thee  at  last, 
Alloting  thee  no  more  His  sterner  ways 
And  cleanly  times  of  war.     For  now  He  grants 
The  recompense  of  battle — pleasant  years, 
And  such  reward  as  age  discerns.     Grown  soft, 
Thy  hands  reach  out  for  mercenary  joys; 
Thy  heart  desires  dishonorable  loves 
And  baser  dreams.     Yearly  the  golden  chain 
Is  weightier  at  thy  wrists,  and  fostered  Pow'rs^" 
Plan  in  their  dusk  of  tyranny  thy  tomb ; 
And  in  that  shadow  Mammon's  eyes  grow  fierce, 

60 


OF  AMERICA 

And  half  thy  sons  adore  him.    Now  the  land 
Grows  vile,  and  all  thy  statehood  is  a  mart.  .  .  . 
So  passed  the  elder  empires.     So  thy  might— 

sf^ 

O  thou  too  blessed  in  immediate  wealth! —  j 
Ebbs  with  the  day,  till  night  behold  thy  doom, 
Nor  feels  the  menace  of  that  lethal  time 
When  sinks  the  day-star  of  senescent  realms, 
Slow-westering  in  splendors  of  decay. " 

Let  men  arraign  thy  worth;  yet  Man  has  found 
Till  now  no  ampler  heavens  than  thine,  nor  years 
Made  safe  for  purer  purpose  to  the  race. 
Our  fathers  builded  well,  and  tho'  our  walls, 
To  children  of  the  fairer  days  to  come, 
Be  seen  the  least  foundation  of  the  plinth 
Wherefrom,  assoiled,  our  sons  to  be  shall  rear 
That  final  Temple  to  confront  the  skies, 
Ntthless,  to  each  his  own,  to  every  age 
Its  war:    their  dust  is  equal  at  the  last  I 
And  thou,  thou  hast  the  daylight  still  in  dowV; 

61 


OF  AMERICA 

The  dews  are  young  upon  thy  leafy  crown; 
We  love  thee  for  thy  youth,  believing  still 
That  nobler  mornings  wait  thy  sovereign  eyes; 
That  Time,  in  expiation,  yet  shall  crown 
The  sordid  years  with  Brotherhood,  and  we 
Walk  sane  at  last,  nor  strive  as  wolves  or  swine 
Each  for  his  glut,  and  heedless  each  of  all. 
We  trust  thy  Fates,  nor  dread  the  hidden  years, 
Beholding  radiance  about  thy  brow- 
Beautiful  light,  whose  rays  reveal  thy  strength, 
And  yet  shall  consecrate  that  strength  to  Man. 

Thus  hope  we,  though  the  vatic  past  appal, 
And  Wisdom  whisper  but  dismay;    so  trust, 
Being  as  voyagers  whose  mist-held  eyne 
See  not  the  Star,  yet  know  the  Star  abides. 


62 


BEAUTY 

The  fairest  things  seem  ever  loneliest: 
The  whitest  lily  ever  blooms  alone, 
And  purest  winds  from  widest  seas  are  flown. 

High  on  her  utmost  tower  of  the  West 

Sits  Beauty,  baffling  an  eternal  quest; 

From  out  her  gates  and  oriels  unknown 
The  murmurs  of  her  citadels  are  blown 

To  blue  horizons  of  the  world's  unrest. 

We  know  -that  we  shall  seek  her  till  we  die, 
And  find  her  not  at  all,  the  fair  and  far: 
Her  pure  domain  is  wider  than  the  sky, 
And  never  night  revealed  her  whitest  star; 
Beyond  the  sea  and  sun  her  feet  have  trod; 
Her  vision  is  our  memory  of  God. 


THE    SOUL   PRISMATIC 

Forlorn,  as  twilight  saddens  now  the  hills, 
I  gaze  across  the  dim  and  lonely  plain 
And  muse,  till  musing  is  at  last  a  pain, 

On  all  the  voices  of  the  countless  rills, 

On  all  the  loveliness  unseen  that  fills 

The  mountains — hidden  beauty  lost  like  rain 
On  wastes  of  the  unalterable  main; 

Lost,  as  a  music  that  the  midnight  stills. 

God !  for  a  heart  to  make  it  so  mine  own 
That  I  would  be  as  crystals  that  accept 
Most  marvelously  the  concealing  ray; 
Till  on  my  page  in  splendor  should  be  thrown 
Such  revelation  as  of  hues  that  slept, 
Unheeded,  in  the  clarity  of  day! 


PRIDE   AND   CONSCIENCE 

Considering  the  mystery  of  pain, 

I  walked  one  day,  when  lo !  in  rags  awry, 
Awrench  and  gnarled,  a  hunchback  shambled  by; 

Whereat,  "In  what  far  certitude  of  gain 

Dost  Thou  debase  Thine  image,  and  disdain 
Our  hearts  that  love  the  beautiful?'7  asked  I. 
"Wilt  Thou  in  Thy  derision,  O  Most  High ! 

Like  kings  of  old  keep  monsters  in  Thy  train?" 

Also  I  said,  "The  shadows  of  Thy  whole 
And  dreadful  plan  are  witness  of  the  light, 

And  strict  concern  of  relativity." 
So  came,  unerring  as  the  sunbeam's  flight, 
The  indignant  challenge  of  mine  undersoul : 

"Nay!   who   is  straight  in  God's  sight — thou 
or  he?n 


AN  APRIL  MORNING 

Slow  to  the  wanton  sun's  desire 
The  vestal-bosomed  buds  unfold, 

Till  poppies  flaunt  a  silken  fire, 
And  buttercups  a  glassy  gold. 

How  gently  fare  the  cloudy  flocks 
To  pastures  girdled  by  the  seal 

The  lizards  twitch  along  the  rocks, 
And  subtle  odors  lure  the  bee. 

There  broods  a  peace  upon  the  hills, 
Too  vast  for  morning  winds  to  break, 

Tho'  murmurs  throng  the  broken   rills, 
And  voices  of  the  woodland  wake, 

Till  half  I  turn  to  hear  again 
The  flutes  of  Arcady  at  dawn, 

And  rout  of  hurrying  nymphs  that  feign 
To  dread  the  kisses  of  the  faun. 


66 


THE  SIREN'S  SONG 

FROM  "  DUANDON  " 

Far  down,  where  virgin  silence  reigns, 
In  jasper  evenings  of  the  sea, 
I  toss  my  pearls,  I  wait  for  thee. 

The  sea  hath  lent  me  all  its  stains: 
It  is  but  treasure-house  of  me. 

The  corals  of  the  sea  have  caught 
A  Titan  shell  whose  fragile  dome 
Is  crimson   o'er  mine   ocean   home, 

Mine  opal  chambers  subtly  wrought 
In  semblance  of  the  shaken  foam. 

Oh!  come!  and  thou  shalt  dream  with  me 
By  violet  foam  at  twilight  tost 
On  strands  of  ocean  islets  lost 

To  prows  that  seek  them  wearily, 
O'er  seas  by  questing  sunsets  crost. 


THE  SIREN'S  SONG 

All  dreams  that  Hope  hath  promised  Love, 
All  beauty  thou  hast  sought  in  vain, 
All  joy  held  once  and  lost  again, 

These,  and  the  mystery  thereof, 

I  guard  beneath  the  sundering  main. 


68 


MADRIGAL 

Maiden,  doff  thy  dream,  and  rise! 
Morning's  rose  is  in  the  skies; 
In  the  meadow  I  can  hear 
Birds  in  chorus  crystal-clear. 

Maiden,  rise,  and  fare  with  me 
Where  expectant  flowers  be — 
Blossoms  holding  thee  in  hope: 
When  thou  comest,  they  will  ope. 

What  to  me  is  any  bird, 
If  it  sing  by  thee  unheard? 
What  is  any  lovely  spot, 
If  its  blossoms  know  thee  not? 


TO  INA  COOLBRITH 

With  wilder  sighing  in  the  pine 

The  wind  went  by,  and  so  I  dreamed; 
And  in  that  dusk  of  sleep  it  seemed 

A  city  by  the  sea  was  mine. 

No  statelier  sprang  the  walls  of  Tyre 
From  seaward  cliff  or  palaced  hill ; 
And  light  and  music  met  to  fill 

The  splendid  courts  of  her  desire — 

(Extolling  chords  that  cried  her  praise, 
And  golden  reeds  whose  mellow  moan 
Was  like  an  ocean's  undertone 

Dying  and  lost  on  forest  ways.) 


70 


TO  IN  A  COOLBRITH 

But  sweeter  far  than  any  sound 
That  rang  or  rippled  in  her  halls, 
Was  one  beyond  her  eastern  walls, 

By  summer  gardens  girdled  round. 

Twas  from  a  nightingale,  and  oh! 

The  song  it  sang  hath  never  word! 

Sweeter  it  seemed  than  Love's,  first-heard, 
Or  lutes  in  Aidenn  murmuring  low. 

Faint,  as  when  drowsy  winds  awake 

A  sisterhood  of  faery  bells, 

It  won  reply  from  hidden  dells, 
Loyal  to  Echo  for  its  sake.   .  .   . 

I  dreamt  I  slept,  but  cannot  say 

How  many  dreamland  seasons  fled, 
Nor  what  horizon  of  the  dead 

Gave  back  my  dream's  uncertain  day. 


TO  IN  A  COOLER!  TH 

But  still  beside  the  toiling  sea 

I  lay,  and  saw — for  walls  o'ergrown- 
The  city  that  was  mine  had  known 

Time's  sure  and  ancient  treachery. 

Above  her  ramparts,  broad  as  Tyre's, 
The  grasses'  mounting  army  broke; 
The  shadows  of  the  sprawling  oak 

Usurpt  the  splendor  of  her  fires. 

But  o'er  the  fallen  marbles  pale 
I  heard,  like  elfin  melodies 
Blown  over  from  enchanted  seas, 

The  music  of  the  nightingale. 


72 


•  A    MOOD 

I  am  grown  weary  of  permitted  things 
And  weary  of  the  care-emburdened  age — 
Of  any  dusty  lore  of  priest  and  sage 

To  which  no  memory  of  Arcadia  clings; 

For  subtly  in  my  blood  at  evening  sings 
A  madness  of  the  faun — a  choric  rage 
That  makes  all  earth  and  sky  seem  but  a  cage 

In  which  the  spirit  pines  with  cheated  wings. 

Rather  by  dusk  for  Lilith  would  I  wait 

And  for  a  moment's  rapture  welcome  death, 
Knowing  that  I  had  baffled  Time  and  Fate, 

And  feeling  on  my  lips,  that  died  with  day 
As  sense  and  soul  were  gathered  to  a  breath, 
The  immortal,  deadly  lips  that  kissing  slay. 


73 


A   VISITOR 

The  winter  twilight  and  the  mournful  rain 
Were  one,  and  on  the  pavements  of  the  town 
The  lights  fell  wet.     Betimes  the  darkness  came, 
And  came  a  headlong  wind  from  out  the  South, 
That  plucked  upon  the  dripping  wires,  and  fled, 
Affrighted  at  its  harping.     Night  and  storm 
Made  drearier  the  solitary  streets, 
And  whining  cars  cast  clamors  on  the  dark. 

But  warm  within  their  home  Elaine  and  John 
Sat  by  their  fire,  that  round  the  pleasant  room 
Threw  wincing  shadows,  or  with  restless  gleams 
Lit  up  a  vase  or  book  or  patient  clock, 
Those  placid  friends  we  gather  with  the  years. 
Nor  which  outgrow  us.     Stern  without,  the  wind 
Spoke  in  some  tree,  but  they  spoke  not  at  all, 
Because  between  their  hearts  was  made  that  rift 


74 


A  VISITOR 

Which,  opening  at  times  to  most  who  love, 
Ere  long  is  closed,  yet  which  perchance  may  gape, 
And  widen  with  the  days,  and  deepen  down, 
Till  some  two  gaze  across  a  bridgeless  gulf 
At  eyes  grown  strangers.     So  the  unwearied  wind 
Moaned,  and  the  rain  was  harsh  upon  the  roof, 
And  John  reread  the  news,  till  mute  Elaine, 
Her  eyes  grown  tired  with  gazing  at  the  fire, 
Saw  half  its  glowing  temples  fall  to  ash. 

Then,  on  that  bitter  silence  of  their  pride, 
There  came  a  knock,  not  timid.     John  arose 
And  lit  their  little  hall,  and  turned  the  knob: 
A  man  stood  tall  without,  with  haughty  face, 
And  costly  garments  proof  against  the  rain. 
Then  John  :  "Come  in."  At  which  the  stranger  shook 
From  all  his  height  the  silver  of  the  storm, 
And  bared  his  head,  and  entered.     Then,  with  mind 
Grown  curious,  said  John:  "What  can  I  do?" 
"I  only  ask,"  their  guest  replied,  "to  walk 

75 


A  V 1 SI TOR 

About  your  home."     Thereat  some  parleying 
Ensued,  for  tho'  'twas  old — a  rented  roof, 
A  cottage  mossed  by  many  winters  gone — 
They  cherished  it,  not  wished  remove  therefrom. 
But  soon  relenting,  John  arose,  and  lit 
Their  six  small  rooms,  and  at  the  stranger's  side 
Was  usher,  telling,  needlessly  perhaps, 
The  use  of  each.     In  one  the  light  was  low, 
And  gentlest  breathing  told  of  childhood's  sleep — 
Their  guest  paused  longest  there.     But  in  each  room 
He  paused,  and  said  no  word,  while  loud  without 
Echoed  the  storm,  as  hurrying  from  the  South 
The  rain's  grey  army  passed.     Then  hastily 
He  said:  "I  thank  you,"  turned,  a  moment  stood, 
And  went  out  silent  to  the  cloven  night. 
But  they  two  ran,  re-opening  the  door 
(Wistful  to  call  him  back),  and  saw  his  form 
Descend  the  steps,  and  heard  a  grievous  cry 
From  out  the  dark:  "Here  I  was  happy  once!' 
And  they  two  turned,  and  kissed  in  sudden  tears. 

76 


A  DREAM  OF  FEAR 

Unseen  the  ghostly  hand  that  led, 

I  walked  where  all  was  darkness,  save 
What  light  the  moon,  half-wasted,  gave 

Above  a  city  of  the  dead. 

So  lone  it  was,  so  grey,  I  deemed 
That  death  itself  was  scarce  so  old; 
The  moonlight  fell   forlorn  and  cold 

On  tombs  where  Time  lay  dead,  it  seemed. 

Within  its  gates  I  heard  the  sound 
Of  winds  in  cypress-caverns  caught 
Of  huddling  trees  that  moaned,  and  sought 

To  whisper  what  their  roots  had   found. 


77 


A  DREAM  OF  FEAR 

Within  its  gates  my  soul  was  led, 

Down  nettle-choked  and  haunted  way — 
An  atom  of  the  Dark's  dismay, 

In  deaf  immensities  of  dread. 

In  broken  crypts  where  ghouls  had  slept 
I  saw  how  muttering  devils  sate 
(Knowing  the  final  grasp  of  Fate) 

And  told  grim  auguries,  and  wept. 

The  night  was  mad  with  nameless  fear. 

The  Powers  of  Darkness  feared  the  gloom. 

From   sentried  sky  to   anxious  tomb 
Ran  messages  I  bent  to  hear. 

Mine  ears  were  sealed,  nor  heard  I  save 
The  secret  known  to  Endor's  witch — 
Whispered  to  lemur  and  to  lich 

From  lips  made  wiser  by  the  grave. 

78 


A  DREAM  OF  FEAR 

O'er  tarns  where  spectral  vapors  flowed 
Antares  shook  with  bloody  J_ight, 
And  guarded   on    its   haughty   flight 

The  offended  fire  of  Alphard  glowed. 

The  menace  of  infinity 

Constrained  the  cavern  of  the  skies. 

I  felt  the  gaze  of  solemn  eyes 
In  hostile  gulfs  intent  to  see; 

Gage  of  whose  imminent  designs, 

Satanic  Armageddon  broke, 

Where  monstrous  vans  in  blackness  spoke 
The  flight  of  Evil  on  the  Signs- 
Abysmal  occupation  cast 

By  kingdoms  of  the  sunken  noon, 

And  shadow-shafts  that  smote  the  moon 
At  altars  of  the  cloven  Vast! 


79 


A  DREAM  OF  FEAR 

To  worlds  that  faltered  on  their  way 

Python's   intolerable   hiss 

Told  from  the  jaws  of  his  abyss 
Malign  amazement  and  dismay. 

By  god  or  demon  undestroyed, 

In  malediction  sate  the  stars, 

Concentered  from  Titanic  wars 
To  cry  the  judgments  of  the  Void. 

Assigned,  implacable,  supreme, 

The  heralds  of  the  Curse  came  down: 
I  felt  the  eternal  bastions'  frown; 

I  saw  colossal  cerements  gleam. 

Convoking  trumpets  shook  the  gloom. 

Their   incommunicable   word 

Announced  o'er  Time's  foundations,  stirred, 
All  vasts  and  covenants  of  doom. 


80 


A  DREAM  OF  FEAR 

I  saw  the  light  of  dreadful  fanes, 
T  heard  enormous  valves  resound, 
For  aeons  sealed  in  crypts  profound, 

And  clangor  of  ascending  chains. 


81 


'  NIGHT  IN  HEAVEN 

All  the  harps  of  Heaven  sang  in  the  timeless  noon 
tide, 

Sang  in  the  day  that  God  had  made  eternity; 
And  memory  was  fled  at  the  drying  of  the  tears, 
Tears  that  won  the  Happiness. 

Many  in  their  bliss  were  the  souls  that  had   for 
gotten — 

Souls  lost  in  light  that  hid  them  each  from  each; 

And   their   harping   as   a   sea   beat   on   the   Throne 

unceasingly, 
Joyous  and  terrible. 

82 


NIGHT  IN  HEAP  EN 

And  vaster  from  their  chords  surged  the  music  made 

marvelous, 
Till  they  sang  not  as  men  whom  He  saved  for  their 

lowliness; 
Till  their  quiring  was  as  that  of  the  angels  who 

sinned  not, 
Familiar  of  His  glory. 

And  the  Lord  thought,  "Behold!  they  are  yet  as 

wayward  children, 

Forgetful  with  joy,  and  haughty  in  their  music! 
Now  shall  I  cause  that  their  hearts  renew  their  need 

of  Me, 
And  one  of  another." 

All  the  harps  of  Heaven  sang  in  a  sudden  twilight, 
And  the  souls  gazed  each  on  each  in  the  ebbing  of 

His  radiance; 
Low  throbbed  the  chords  till  their  music  was  of 

memory 
And  the  homes  of  their  sorrow-time. 


NIGHT  IN  HEAVEN 

They  sang  of  toil  that  ceased,  and  of  kine  that  left 

the  hillside, 
Of   dumb   things   that    fed,    and   of    children    tired 

and  dusty, 
Of  the  moon  great  and  low,  and  the  warmth  of  lowly 

hearths — 
These,  and  their  comforting. 

All  the  harps  of  Heaven  sang  in  a  holy  darkness, 
And  like  the  stars  in  dew  shone  the  tears  of  men 

remembering, 
Weary  men   and   humble,   that   had   the   night   for 

slumber — 
Night  and  its  tenderness. 

Now  if  they  forget,  and  the  human  in  their  harping 
Cease  like  a  flower  from  the  face  of  things  eternal, 
Comes  again  the  evening,  the  shadow  of  His  glory. 
So  the  souls  remember. 


84 


PERSONAL    SONNETS 


TO  MY  WIFE  AS  MAY  QUEEN 

Goddess  of  hearts  by  beauty's  right  divine, 

If  yet  in  any  isle  of  ancient  seas 

Or  garden  of  the  lost  Hesperides 
An  altar  to  the   Cytherean  shine, 
Go  thou  not  thither,  tho'  the  gods  repine; 

But  grant  us,  we  that  love  thy  dear  decrees, 

To  know  thy  sway — solicitous  to  please 
With  coronals  and  sacrificial  wine. 

Permit  us  that  the  dove-voiced  flutes  extol 
Thy  grace,  and  ours  be  garlands  that  enthrall 

Of  sacred  myrtle  to  thy  service  grown. 
Beauty  hath  many  pathways  to  the  soul, 

And  thou,  O  gentle  queen,  hast  found  them  all, 
Making  each  heart  thou  enterest  thy  throne. 


PERSONAL  SONNETS 


TO  AMBROSE  BIERCE 

Master,  when  worms  have  had  their  will  of  thee, 
And  thou  art  but  a  voice  along  the  years — 
A  star  in  the  companionship  of  spheres 

That  are  Fame's  firmament — may  God  decree 

That  song  and  song's  hostilities  shall  be 

A  sword  within  my  hands,  a  flame  that  sears 
The  liar's  mouth  that  slanders  thee,  nor  fears 

The  vengeances  of  Truth's  supremacy! 

O  Fates  that  on  the  tomb  of  greatness  dead 
Permit  the  viper  and  the  toad  to  bask, 

Lend  me  your  youngest  lightnings,  and  impel 
My  spirit  as  a  whirlwind  to  the  task 
To  char  the  liar's  tongue  within  his  head — 
Like  ashes  on  the  adamant  of  Hell! 


86 


PERSONAL  SONNETS 


NORA  MAY  FRENCH 

I  saw  the  shaken  stars  of  midnight  stir, 

And  winds  that  sought  the  morning  bore  to  me 
The  thunder  where  the  legions  of  the  sea 

Are  shattered  on  her  stormy  sepulcher, 

And  pondering  on  bitter  things  that  were, 
On  cruelties  the  mindless  Fates  decree, 
I  felt  some  shadow  of  her  mystery — 

The  loneliness  and  mystery  of  her. 

The  waves  that  break  on  undiscovered  strands, 
The  winds  that  die  on  seas  that  bear  no  sail, 

Stars  that  the  deaf,  eternal  skies  annul, 
Were  not  so  lonely  as  was  she.     Our  hands 
We  reach  to  thee  from  Time — without  avail, 
O  spirit  mighty  and  inscrutable! 


PERSONAL  SONNETS 
TO    ROBERT    I.    AITKEN 

SCULPTOR 
The  abiding  marble  shadows  forth  thy  dream; 

But  in  what  quarries  of  infinity 

Must  spirit  strive  with  formlessness  to  free 
The  vision?     Lo !  upon  the  mind's  extreme 
It  bursts  from  darkness  like  a  dawn  supreme — 

The  rainbow  of  an  undiscovered  sea, 

A  blossom  of  that  vine  of  mystery 
Whose  roots  touch  night,  whose  flowers  in  morning 
gleam. 

We  are  but  thoughts.     With  music  or  the  pen 
We  tell  what  silences  about  us  brood, 

And  limn  with  masteries  of  hue  or  stone, 
Set  for  a  little  in  the  sight  of  men, 
The  visions  of  that  mighty  solitude 

From  which  we  come,  to  which  we  pass,  alone! 


88 


PERSONAL  SONNETS 


TO    CHARLES    ROLLO    PETERS 

MASTER-PAINTER  OF  NOCTURNES 

The  padres  have  departed  from  our  lands, 

And  gone  with  them  is  all  their  gentler  lore; 

The  mission  bells  waft  yet,  beside  the  shore, 
Their  music  to  the  hills  and  lonely  sands; 
But  all  in  vain  the  memory  demands 

A  vision  of  the  mute  romance  of  yore. 

We  well  had  said:    "It  shall  return  no  more. 
We  beckon  back  the  past  with  futile  hands." 

Nay,  it  was  lost  till  you,  with  subtlest  wiles, 
Recalled  the  glamor  and  the  mystery— 

The  cypress  hushed  beneath  the  evening  star, 
And  haunted  headlands  graven  by  the  sea- 
Till  Beauty  that  was  fled  from  darkness  smiles, 
And  moonlight  is  a  fane  to  her  afar. 


THE   MAN   I   MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN 

Now,  ere  the  grey  and  ghastly  dawn 

Restore  the  heartening  sun, 
And  Conscience,  at  his  light  withdrawn, 

Behold  her  toil  undone, 
With  more  than  day's  remorseful  pow'r, 

To  grimmest  ghosts  akin, 
He  comes  to  haunt  a  candid  hour — 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 

Clear-visioned  with  betraying  night, 

I  count  his  merits  o'er, 
And  get  no  comfort  from  the  sight, 

Nor  any  cure  therefor. 
I'd  mourn  my  desecrated  years 

(His  maimed  and  sorry  twin), 
But  well  he  knows  my  makeshift  tears— 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 


90 


THE  MAN  I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 


Decisively  his  looks  declare 

The  heart's  divine  success; 
He  held  no  parley  with  despair, 

Nor  pact  with  wantonness; 
He  wanders  with  accustomed  feet 

The  heights  I  dreamt  to  win; 
A  sleepless  hour,  he  finds  it  sweet- 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 

His  station  in  the  ranks  of  good 

I  view  with  joyless  eyes; 
His  victories  o'er  self  withstood 

Denying  I  surmise. 
Tho'  reason  slay  him  at  a  glance, 

The  mirth  of  Death  agrin 
Defines  him  master  of  mischance— 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 


THE  MAN  I  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN 


Whenas  I  ponder  in  my  pride 

(An  after-dream  of  day) 
If  thus  the  wilful  gods  deride 

My  will  to  scorn  the  clay, 
He  comes,  where  jealous  of  their  youth 

I  nurse  a  starveling  sin, 
To  sting  me  with  the  acrid  truth — 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 

Tho'  half  I  deem  my  gentle  friends 

Would  love  him  less  than  me, 
No  less  the  daunting  wraith  attends 

The  dark's  sincerity. 
O  Fates  that  held  us  at  your  choice, 

How  strange  a  web  ye  spin ! 
Why  chose  ye  not  with  equal  voice 

The  man  I  might  have  been. 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   BOHEMIA 

A   WOODLAND   MASQUE 

(Being  the  thirtieth  annual  midsummer  High  Jinks 
of  the  Bohemian  Club  of  San  Francisco,  as  en 
acted  by  members  of  the  club  at  the  Bohemian 
Grove  in  Sonoma  County,  California,  the 
twenty-seventh  night  of  July,  Nineteen  Hun 
dred  and  Seven.) 


(The  Play  is  preceded  by  an  orchestral  prelude, 
toward  the  end  of  which  the  curtain  is  drawn,  dis 
closing  a  forest  glade  at  the  foot  of  a  wooded  hillside 
in  moonlight.  Seven  Tree-Spirits  are  discovered 
sleeping.  They  toss  in  their  slumber  and  appear  per 
turbed.  During  the  closing  measures  of  the  pre 
lude,  the  First  Tree-Spirit  awakes  slowly  and  half 
arises. ) 

93 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

FIRST   TREE-SPIRIT 
(Drowsily) 

Who  calls?     I  fain  would  sleep.     Nay,  call  me 

not! 
I  cling  to  sleep!    What  voices  break  my  rest? 

(Rising) 

What  power  to-night  makes  heavy  all  the  air, 
And  with  my  slumber  mixes  dreadful  dreams? 
Some  spirit  stirs  malignly!     All  the  dark 
Seems  overhung  as  tho'  with  monstrous  wings, 
And  menace  loads  the  gloom.     My  brothers  stir, 
And  mutter  broken  prophecies  from  sleep. 
'Tis  ominous,  nor  further  to  be  borne, 
Save  in  defiance  and  all  watchfulness. 

(Touching  the  other  Tree-Spirits) 
O  brothers,  wake ! 

( The  other  Tree-Spirits  sleep  on,  but  become  more 
agitated  in  their  slumber.) 

Awake !  some  peril  comes ! 

94 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SECOND  TREE-SPIRIT 

(Half  waking) 

Touch  not  my  dream ! 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

(Shaking  the  sleeping  Spirits  anxiously) 

Awake!    A  foe  is  near! 

SECOND    TREE-SPIRIT 
(Rising) 

The  night  is  strange!     I  vow  some  witch  hath 

passed 
And  spat  a  curse.    My  dreams  were  dipt  in  fear. 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 
And  mine! 

OTHER   TREE-SPIRITS 

And  mine!    And  mine! 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

I  deem  't  were  well 
We  should  extend  some  challenge  to  the  wrath — 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Demon  or  lich  or  ghost — that  walks  to-night 
Our  ancient  and  immutable  domain. 

SECOND   TREE-SPIRIT 

(Addressing  the  other  Tree-Spirits,  who  have  noic 
arisen  and  listen  with  anxious  interest.) 

T  were  well  indeed !    What  strength  is  like  our 

strength  ? 

Whose  home  is  like  to  ours?    The  leaguing  rains 
Are  but  our  cup-bearers.     The  tempest  wakes 
Our  deep,  enormous  music,  and  expires. 
The  furious  sun  but  lends  intenser  life, 
And  winter's  lance  is  blunted  on  our  breasts. 
The  mountains  are  our  brothers,  and  the  sea. 
Time  is  our  slave.     O  brothers!  let  us  cry 
Defiance  to  the  powers  of  earth  and  air! 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

That  cry  the  mountains  know.  That  cry  has  rung 
These  thousand  years  along  this  vale  of  ours. 
The  centuries  have  heard  our  song,  and  passed. 

96 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

CHORUS  OF  TREE-SPIRITS 

Like  elder  gods  that  congregate- 
Like  gods  that  rule  a  spacious  land, 
We,  from  the  morn  of  time  made  great, 
Like  Titans  mailed,  untroubled  stand. 
Earth's  strong  and  primal  sons  are  we, 
And  equal  of  the  ageless  sea; 
August,  we  hold  an  ocean's  strength; 
Our  stalwart  lives  know  not  their  length. 
Tho'  ancient  thrones  and  empires  pass 
Like  dews  at  morning  from  the  grass, 
Supreme  we  face  the  warring  sky— 
The  unharming  ages  pass  us  by 
Nor  conquer  us  at  all. 
Upon  the  mountain  wall 
At  dawn  the  sun  we  greet, 
At  eventide  the  stars, 
As  mighty  brotherhoods  that  meet. 
We  set  the  tempest  bars, 
Tho'  loud  and  long  it  call, 


97 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

And  barriers  to  the  whirlwind's  breast — 
We  scorn  their  fury  and  unrest. 

The  fire  shall  smite  in  vain 

The  pillars  of  our  hall; 
Mankind  is  but  a  feeble  thing; 
Time  sunders  not  our  endless  reign; 

Like  giants  throned  we  sing; 

Defiance  proud  we  fling — 
Tho'  thunderbolts  from  heaven  may  fall, 
Tho'  all  the  winds  from  heaven  may  swarm — 

To  lightning,  fire,  and  storm ! 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

Brothers,  your  souls  are  wise,  your  hearts  are 

strong — 

Too  strong  to  fear  this  menace  of  the  night, 
This   formless  peril  of  the  traitorous  dark. 
Tho'  such  appear,  we  straight  with  baffling  mirth 
Shall  drive  it  hence,  with  arrowy  laughter  pierce 
Its  futile  mail.     Let  happiness  be  arms, 

98 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

And  merriment  our  refuge  and  our  shield — 
The  merriment  of  leaves  that  shake  for  joy, 
The  merriment  of  brooks  and  rippling  grass. 
Ye  Saplings,  dance  in  maddest  mockery 
Of  any  hostile  power  that  haunts  the  night  I 

SECOND   TREE-SPIRIT 
Dance!   for  the  winds  compel  your  boughs  in 

life! 
Dance!  for  the  fallen  leaf  must  dance  in  death! 

( The  Tree-Spirits  withdraw  from  the  center  of  the 
stage,  leaving  eight  Saplings,  who  begin  a  dance. 
The  dance  lasts  for  several  minutes,  but  is  interrupted 
by  the  North-Wind  Motive  in  the  orchestra,  fol 
lowed  by  the  appearance  of  the  Spirit  of  the  North- 
Wind.) 

SPIRIT  OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Who  challenges  the  wind,  and  sets  his  breast 
Against  the  tempest?  Who  shall  stand  unscathed 
Before  my  fury?     Let  that  one  come  forth! 


99 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SECOND   TREE-SPIRIT 

0  Saplings,  dance  your  merriest,  nor  heed 
These  empty  thunders! 

(The  Saplings  gaze  in  terror  at  the  North-Wind, 
and  hesitate.) 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

Fear  ye  not  at  all: 
But  dance  like  summer  dust  in  summer  winds. 

( The  Saplings  resume  their  dance,  at  the  end  of 
which  the  North-Wind  Motive  is  again  heard,  and 
the  Spirit  of  the  North-Wind  advances  with  threaten 
ing  gestures.) 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

1  now  with  voice  of  imminent  prophecy 
Announce  your  dooms,  and  bid  you  bow  to  Death ! 

SECOND   TREE-SPIRIT 

Who  then  art  thou  who  vauntest?  Who  art  thou, 
That  mightiest  things  should  stand  in    awe    of 
thee? 

100 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

I  am  the  North-Wind.     On  the  frozen  seas 
I  have  my  home,  and  thence  I  sally  forth 
To  scourge  the  world.    All  living  things,  abased, 
Fall  down  before  me.     My  resistless  hands 
Have  sundered  limb  from  limb  the  hugest  oaks. 
The  pine,  with  broken  back,  hath  bent  to  me. 
I  rush  athwart  the  mountain-peak,  and  shout 
My  dreadful  challenge  to  the  lands  below. 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

I  know  thee.     I  am  father  of  the  grove, 
And  from  a  sapling  have  I  striven  with  thee, 
Nor  fallen. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Yet  thy  doom  is  come,  and  come 
The  doom  of  all  thy  brothers.  I  have  sworn 
Not  any  life  shall  brave  me  in  my  wrath. 

101 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

(Turning  to  the  other  Tree-Spirits.) 

Brothers,  draw  near,  that  so  we  hold  in  scorn 
These   vauntings   and   immoderate   menaces. 

(  The  Tn  e-Spirits  group  themselves  before  the  Spirit 

of  the  North-Wind.) 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

And  deem  ye  then  that  helpless  now  I  stand, 
Or  that  my  war  is  ended  ere  begun? 
Dream  not  your  perils  cease :  I,  too,  O  Trees ! 
Am  of  a  brotherhood.     All  power  is  ours. 
We  lay  our  hands  upon  the  shaken  world 
And  wrench  its  walls  and  sturdiest  pinnacles. 
We  drive  all  life  in  terror  from  our  front, 
And  wrap  the  sea  in  winding-sheets  of  foam. 
I  have  prepared  this  night  my  war,  and  now, 
O  arrogant  and  unastounded  trees! 
Mine  allies  shall  announce  their  offices, 
And  tell  their  strengths,   and  bid  you  bow  to 
Death.  .  .  . 

IO2 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

O  come,  my  dreadful  brother  of  the  South! 
( The  South-Wind  Motive  is  heard  in  the  orchestra 
and  the  Spirit  of  the  South-Wind  appears.) 

SPIRIT  OF  THE  SOUTH-WIND 

0  Trees!     I  am  the  South-Wind!    On  my  brow 
Sit  drought  and  acrid  fevers  of  the  air. 
Before  me  walk  the  brood  of  fervent  heat 
And  phantom  armies  of  the  pestilence. 

1  shall  impel  upon  your  heads  this  night 
All  poisons  and  all  languors.     Ye  shall  reel 
And  find  the  very  earth  below  your  feet 

Is  sick  and  leprous. 

SECOND  TREE-SPIRIT 

Nay,  the  boastful  winds 
Were  ever  noisy.     We  despise  thy  words. 

SPIRIT  OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Appear,  O  loyal  brother  of  the  West ! 
( The  West-Wind  Motive  is  heard  in  the  orchestra, 
and  the  Spirit  of  the  West-Wind  appears.) 

103 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   WEST-WIND 

My  cloudy  walls  look  down  upon  the  sea, 
And  mine  unresting  children  walk  her  tides. 
I  am  the  West-Wind.     I  shall  leap  the  wall 
The  mountains  rear,  and  smite  you  on  the  flank. 
I,  lord  of  all  the  sea,  shall  rend  your  limbs 
Even  as  I  strike  to  foam  the  howling  wave. 

SECOND   TREE-SPIRIT 

Thunders  affright  us  not,  nor  any  threat 
That  lacketh  deeds  behind  its  braggart  breath. 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Appear,  O  brother  of  the  bitter  East! 
( The  East-Wind  Motive  is  heard  in  the  orchestra, 
and  the  Spirit  of  the  East-Wind  appears.) 

SPIRIT  OF  THE   EAST-WIND 

Behold  me!     I  am  Master  of  the  East! 
The  white  Sierras  are  my  granite  throne — 
The  pathless  desert  is  my  resting  place. 
The  world  is  but  my  harp,  and  from  its  chords 

104 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BO  HEM 1 A 

I  lift  a  dolorous  music  to  the  sky. 

I,  pitiless,  shall  tread  you  down,  O  Trees! 

SECOND  TREE-SPIRIT 
So  much  of  sound,  so  little  of  assault 
Are  food  for  scorn.     A  boast  is  not  a  blow. 
We  scorn,  O  Winds!  your  furious  array. 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 
Allies  are  ours  of  whom  ye  little  reck; 

0  Father  Time,  come  forward  in  thy  pow'r! 

( The  Time  Motive  is  heard  in  the  orchestra,  and 
the  Spirit  of  Time  appears,  bearing  his  scythe.) 

SPIRIT   OF   TIME 
Cities  of  men  and  groves  august  with  years 
Mine  eyes  have  seen.     They  are  forgotten  now. 
All  beauty  and  all  strength  await  my  hands, 
Which  smite  to  dust  all  beauty  and  all  strength. 

1  touch  the  flower;  I  touch  the  butterfly; 

I  break  the  sceptres  and  the  swords  of  kings, 
And  in  my  fitting  seasons  rend  their  tombs, 

105 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

And  sow  their  fruitless  ashes  on  the  wind. 
Minister  of  eternity  am  I. 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 
We  know  thee  not,  nor  bend  to  thee  at  all, 
Except  thou  gauge  with  deeds  those  pomps  of 
breath. 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 
Then,  foolish  Trees,  one  whom  ye  know  too  well 
Shall  war  with  you.    Wherefore  do  thou  appear, 

0  spirit  and  essential  soul  of  Fire! 

( The  Fire  Motive  is  heard  in  the  orchestra,  and  the 
Spirit  of  Fire  appears  high  on  the  hill  in  a  burst  of 
flame.  He  rushes  down  the  hillside,  bearing  a  flam 
ing  torch  in  the  form  of  a  scourge.  Flames  issue 
from  his  helmet,  and  leap  from  the  earth  along  his 
path.  He  reaches  a  station  above  the  point  wht're 
the  Spirits  oj  the  Winds  and  Time  are  gathered.) 

SPIRIT  OF   FIRE 

1  come,  whose  hunger  never  yet  had  glut ! 

106 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Greeting,  thou  changeless  terror  that  dost  walk 
By  noon-day  and  by  night!     Behold  thy  prey! 

SPIRIT   OF   FIRE 

(Coming  down   to   the  Spirits   of  the  Winds  and 
Time.) 

Madness  and  furious  blood  untamable 

Do  mix  in  me,  till  merciless  I  rage. 

Before  the  vision  of  astonished  men 

I  rear  my  flaming  throne,  and  glare  thereon, 

Waking  their  tears,  that  cannot  quench  mine  ire, 

Hearing  their  groans,   that  soon  my  laughters 

fierce 

Do  drown;  till,  rushing  onward  from  their  fields 
I  grasp  all  swords  of  elemental  pow'r 
And   drive   my   harnessed   whirlwinds   o'er   the 

world — 
Resistless  tempests  quickened  by  my  wrath. 

(  The  orchestra  here  begins  the  music  introductory 

to  the  conflict  which  follows.) 


107 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

We  still  defy  all  perils  and  all  pow'rs ! 
Stand,  brothers,  as  of  yore,  for  not  alone 
Shall  any  life  resist  the  warring  world. 

SPIRIT   OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

Ye  raging  and  relentless  elements 

That    hold    the    heavens!     Whose    voice    the 

thunder  is, 
Whose  lance  the  thunderbolt,  whose  wings  the 

rain, 

Come,  dreadful  in  your  cloudy  panoplies! 
With  night  and  storm  confound  these  stubborn 

trees, 

And  hurl  them  shattered  from  their  eminence! 
(Turning  to  his  allies.) 

On !    On  I  nor  pause  till  all  the  trees  are  doomed, 
And  ruinous  ashes  load  the  victor  winds! 

(  The  Spirits  of  the  Winds,  Time  and  Fire  prepare  to 
advance  upon   the    Tree-Spirits,   and  descend  from 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

their  station;  the  latter  make  ready  to  repel  the  as 
sault,  armed  with  branches.  The  stage  is  darkened 
as  they  rush  upon  one  another,  and  the  conflict  is 
represented  chiefly  by  the  music,  augmented  by  thun 
der  and  lightning  and  the  howling  of  the  wind.  As 
this  comes  to  a  close,  the  stage  gradually  becomes 
bright,  and  the  Tree-Spirits  are  seen  grouped  in  the 
center,  their  enemies  having  disappeared.  The  music 
that  accompanies  the  conflict  merges  into  the  Victory 
Chorus,  which  the  Tree-Spirits  sing.) 

VICTORY   CHORUS 
Ye  gods  of  victory 
Look  down  on  earth  and  see 
How  fail  our  haughty  foes! 
Presumptuous  they  rose, 

And  dared  to  dream  that  we  could  fall. 
Defiant,  stern,  and  strong, 
We  met  their  hostile  throng, 

And  now  the  night  beholds  us  all 

Unconquered  in  our  battle-hall. 


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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

O  gods  of  victory  1 

Look  down  on  us  and  we 

Shall  praise  your  power,  unfailing  lords, 

And  cast  from  all  our  forest  chords 
A  music  glad  and  long, 
A  high  and  happy  song, 

That  fire  and  time  and  winds  in  vain 

Assail  our  everlasting  reign, 
Victorious  and  strong. 


FIRST  TREE-SPIRIT 

We  have  conquered !  we  have  conquered !     All  in 

vain 

The  drunk  and  noisy  vaunting  of  our  foes! 
We  have  withstood  their  onslaught,  nor  bowed 

down. 

Who  now  shall  strive  with  us  for  evermore? 
Who  now  shall  share  with  us  our  ancient  place, 
Or  dream  to  stand  unhumbled  in  our  sight? 

no 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

(  The  sound  of  a  distant  horn  is  heard  from  the  direc 
tion  of  the  hill.  The  Tree-Spirits  peer  up  the  hill 
side.) 

SECOND  TREE-SPIRIT 

What  god,  with  distant  clarion  from  the  night, 
Betrays  his  frustrate  hunting?     All  the  wood 
Is  hushed  to  hear  that  music  on  the  dark. 

(  The  sound  of  the  horn  is  again  heard,  but  nearer. 
The  orchestra  plays  a  slow  march,  and  a  band  of 
Jfoodmtn  appear  in  the  distance  on  the  hillside. 
They  carry  broad-axes  and  torches,  and  one  has  a 
horn  slung  from  his  shoulder.) 

FIRST   TREE-SPIRIT 
Lo!  who  are  those  that  come?    What  shape  of 

man 

Assaults  our  solitudes?     Man  seemed  till  now 
A  feeble  thing,  a  red  and  harmless  brute, 
That  ran  all  naked  in  his  daily  search 
For  nut  and  root  and  egg,  or  at  the  stream 
Desired  the  fish.     But  these  are  white,  and  hold 


1 1 1 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Each  one  a  gleaming  weapon  in  his  hand — 
The  which  I  fear,  not  knowing  why  I  fear. 
The  crimson  fire  has  no  such  tooth  as  that. 

( The  Woodmen  begin  to  sing  the  Care-Song  as 
they  approach,  and  the  Tree-Spirits  stealthily  with 
draw.  ) 

CARE-SONG 

Thro'  the  wide  world  everywhere 
Restless  mortals  flee  from  Care. 
Where  they  marry,   where  they  work, 
There  shall  Care  unsleeping  lurk. 

Tho'  I  wander  far  and  wide, 
Care,  a  shadow  at  my  side, 
Still  shall  claim  his  worship  due, 
Still  shall  know  me  and  pursue. 

All  in  vain  I  seek  a  spot 
Where  his  face  shall  haunt  me  not, 
Till  beneath  the  shielding  sod 
I  shall  hide  from  Care  the  god. 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

( The  Woodmen  finish  the  Care-Song  and  gaze  curi 
ously  about  them.) 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
Here,  brothers,  shall  we  labor  day  by  day, 
And  sleep  at  restful  night,  till  all  this  grove 
Be  fallen.     These  indeed  are  mighty  trees. 
How  still  the  night!  tho'  not  so  long  ago 
It  seemed  as  tho'  the  wind  would  never  fold 
His  vast  and  furious  wings.    Sleep  now  till  dawn 
Awake  you.     As  for  me,  I  shall  not  sleep, 
For  I  must  draw  my  plans  against  this  wood. 
Here,  first,  I  set  mine  axe. 

(First  Woodman  drives  his  axe  into  the  nearest  tree. 
A  groan  is  heard.  The  orchestra  plays  a  fragment 
of  the  North-Wind  Motive.) 

SECOND  WOODMAN 

Brother,  didst  groan? 

Methought  I  heard  a  sound  most  grave,  as  tho' 
Far  off,  a  giant  knew  his  doom,  and  moaned. 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
The  sound  thou  heardst  was  but  the  northern 

wind, 

Sobbing  his  heart  out  in  some  hollow  tree, 
And  since  he  may  draw  near,  it  well  would  seem 
That  we  have  shelter  from  his  cruelties. 
Come,  let  us  fell  the  smallest  of  this  grove 
And  set  its  boughs  between  us  and  the  gale. 

( The  Woodmen  grasp  their  axes  and  turn  toward  a 
tree,  but  are  arrested  by  the  hooting  of  an  owl.  They 
gaze  up  the  hillside,  where  an  immense  owl  may  be 
seen  flying  slowly  in  a  spiral  course  toward  them.) 

SECOND  WOODMAN 

What  spirit  stirs  within  the  shaken  dark? 
What  sweep  and  dreadful  imminence  of  wings? 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
I  see  what  seems  a  dragon  of  the  night — 
Some  wide-winged  bat  of  hell! 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SECOND  WOODMAN 

I  ween  a  god, 

Enraged,  has  sent  some  herald  of  his  ire 
To  beat  us  hence.     Now  whither  shall  we  fly? 

( The  owl  finally  alights  on  the  lower  hillside  at  the 
back  of  the  stage  and  vanishes.  At  the  point  where 
the  owl  disappeared,  the  Spirit  of  Bohemia,  a  naked 
youth,  is  seen.  The  flight  of  the  owl  is  accompanied 
in  the  orchestra  by  the  Owl  Motive,  which  changes 
to  the  Bohemian  Motive  when  the  Spirit  of  Bohemia 
enters.  The  Woodmen  fall  back  in  astonishment.) 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
O  men!  what  would  ye  in  my  chosen  place? 
Know  ye  each  tree  around  is  holy  wood? 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
Nay,  this  we  knew  not. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

I,  Bohemia, 
Within  these  solemn,  everlasting  aisles, 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Do  walk  at  times,  and  that  my  tranquil  house 
Longer  endure,  within  each  pillar  high 
Have  set  a  guardian  spirit  .  .  .  .Come  ye  forth 
My  forest  children. 
(The  Tree-Spirits  emerge  from  the  forest.) 

Why  this  pallid  fright 

That  with  unwonted  spell  constrains  each  face? 
What  peril  threatens? 

THIRD  TREE-SPIRIT 
(Sings) 

O  thou  mighty  one! 

Give  heed,  attend  our  prayer,  and  set  thy  strength 
Between  us  and  this  doom !     Harken  our  cry, 
And  sit  in  judgment  as  we  make  appeal! 
Justice!     O  thou  arraigner  of  the  wrong! 

ARIA 

O  spirit  crowned  with  grace  and  pow'r 
Be  with  us  in  this  darkest  hour! 
The  might  thy  majesty  attests 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Display  to  guard  our  anxious  breasts, 

Nor  suffer  that  unspared  we  reel 

Before  the  grey,  relentless  steel. 

For  ages  we,  a  stalwart  band, 

Have  cast  our  shadows  o'er  the  land; 

For  ages  shared  the  peace  that  fills 

The  blue  dominion  of  the  hills, 

And  heard  at  our  unmoving  feet 

Her  changeless  tale  the  brook  repeat. 

We  take  no  part  in  Nature's  harms, 

But  ever  hold  protecting  arms 

O'er  humble  things  that  love  our  shade; 

And  now  must  we  too  soon  be  laid 

In  ruin  on  the  mother  earth? 

Shall  all  the  powers  that  blessed  our  birth 

Forsake  us  in  our  time  of  need? 

Must  we  be  humbled  as  the  reed? 

Shall  we  no  more  grow  fair  and  tall, 

Where  woodland  voices  rise  and  fall, 

Nor  feel  upon  our  brows  again 


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THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

The  soft  caresses  of  the  rain, 
Nor  know  the  blessings  of  the  light 
And  all  the  comfort  of  the  night? 
Defend  us,  Spirit  strong  and  bright! 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
O  trees  I  love,  't  is  well  indeed  I  came! 
Had  I  held  revel  in  some  distant  land, 
As  is  my  wont,  nor  thought  me  of  this  grove, 
And  how  beneath  its  shade  no  care  endures, 
These  men  had  ravaged,  ere  again  I  found 
Its  refuge,  this  my  place  of  peace,  and  wrought 
Great  desolation.     It  is  well  I  came. 
O  men  that  plot  the  ruin  of  my  home, 
Now  get  ye  hence  accursed  from  this  spot! 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
Be  merciful,  Bohemia!     We  all 
Are  needy  men  and  humble.     We  thy  wrath 
Deserve  not,  nor  deserve  thy  dreadful  curse. 

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THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
O  men!     O  latest  men  within  this  land! 
Harken  my  words:     Ye,  year  by  cruel  year, 
Lay  desolate  the  lordliest  groves  of  earth, 
And  in  great  woodland  chambers  of  the  gods 
Do  sacrilege.     The  living  miracle 
That  Nature,  careful  for  a  thousand  years, 
Did  so  contrive  with  wisdom  to  perform, 
Ye  in  a  day  undo.     Did  forests  know 
What  ravage  was  designed  them  by  your  minds, 
They  in  one  moan  more  solemn  than  the  sea's 
Would  sound  their  lamentation,  and  affright 
All  men  and  lands.     Imagine  ye,   forsooth, 
The  patient  gods  will  sit  forever  calm, 
Bearing  to  see  their  fairest  seats  profaned, 
And  these  their  altars  tumbled  from  the  sky? 

SECOND  WOODMAN 

Men  too  have  need  of  homes. 


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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

Truly,  and  there, 

Housed  gentlier  than  soulless  bear  or  wolf, 
Should  find  both  heart  and  mind  made  sensitive 
To  cherish  beauty,  nor  desire  to  pluck 
The  field's  last  flower,  nor  fell  the  grove's  last 

tree. 

Behold !    The  land  is  armied  with  these  woods ! 
Ye  may  fare  onward  for  uncounted  leagues, 
To  hear  them  murmuring  in  dawns  to  be. 
Must  ye,  like  kine  in  corn,  spare  not  a  shaft? 
Nor  will  ye  in  one  valley  leave  one  grove? 
Ye  are  no  men,  but  brutes,  and  now  my  curse 
Shall  scatter  you  abroad  like  frightened  swine! 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
Nay,  great  Bohemia,  let  mercy  rule 
Thy    heart!     Henceforth    this    grove    is    holy 

ground. 
At  last  we  see  our  sin,  and  so  repent 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Our  sacrilege,  and  fain  would  guard  these  trees. 
Permit  that  we  be  children  too  of  thine! 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

Since  ye  find  grace  to  hold  in  reverence 
This  grove,  I  now  pronounce  it  of  my  realm 
Chief  temple,  and  do  make  you  ministers 
Of  my  good  worship. 

FIRST  WOODMAN 

We  would  serve  thy  fane 
Forever — thou  art  gladdest  of  the  gods. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
My  worship  is  a  happy  one,  and  hath 
Large  recompense;  and  in  my  temple  soon 
There  shall  be  gracious  spirits  that  attend 
In  beauty  and  in  strength.  .  .  .  O  Fire!  come 

forth! 

(A  fragment  of  the  Fire  Motive  is  heard  in  the  or 
chestra,  and  the  Spirit  of  Fire  appears  high  on  the 
hillside,  in  a  glow  of  colored  light.  He  descends  the 


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THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

hillside  slowly,  still  surrounded  by  a  colored  glow, 
till  he  reaches  the  lower  hillside  at  back  of  stage.) 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
Tell  now  thy  service  in  the  years  to  be. 

SPIRIT  OF  FIRE 

0  Master,  I  shall  light  the  ritual 

And,   splendid-robed,   make   bright  the   temple 

aisles. 

When  these  thy  priests,  with  melody  and  song, 
Extol  thy  name,  I,  glorious  on  thy  hearth, 
Shall  gild  the  revel,  and  dispel  all  thoughts 
That  are  of  darkness.    Wherefore,  to  this  grove 

1  shall  not  fare  henceforth  save  at  thy  beck. 
Here  not  as  a  destroyer  shall  I  rage, 

But  parent  and  preserver  of  the  light. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
Come  forth,  O  Winds!  and  tell  my  new-made 

priests 
Your  service. 

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THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

(A  fragment  of  the  Wind  Motives  is  heard  in  the 
orchestra  and  the  Spirits  of  the  East,  West,  South 
and  North  Winds  come  on  in  the  order  named.) 


SPIRIT  OF  THE   NORTH-WIND 

High  Bohemia !  we  are  come ! 
It  is  our  thought  that  we  no  more  molest 
This  grove  with  all  our  fury.     We  shall  serve 
As  minstrels,  as  the  lords  of  woodland  harps- 
Masters  of  wildest  music.     We  by  day 
Shall  wander  joyous  in  the  maze  of  boughs, 
And  cast  like  golden  fruit  our  mellow  notes 
Below  to  these  thy  priests,  until,  by  night, 
We  so  with  tendcrest  breath  upon  our  chords 
Shall  unto  slumber  lure  their  drowsy  souls 
That  they  forget  awhile  they  ever  lived, 
And  toiled,  and  were  a-troubled.     At  our  call 
The  timid  god  of  sleep  shall  cease  to  fear, 
Approach  unawed,  and  bless  them  till  the  dawn. 


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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
Come  forth,  O  thou  portentous  soul  of  Time ! 

(A  fragment  of  the  Time  Motive  is  heard  in  the 
orchestra,  and  the  Spirit  of  Time  appears.) 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

0  Time,  what  is  thy  service  at  my  fane? 

SPIRIT  OF  TIME 

1  shall  be  very  gentle  to  thy  sons. 

If  aught  they  mark  of  me,  't  will  be  my  smile. 
Even  as  the  welcome  shadow  of  a  cloud 
My  shade  shall  fall  on  them,  until  at  last 
Desiring  rest,  they  turn  to  me  for  sleep, 
Like  weary  children  to  their  father's  home. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
O  ministers  of  beauty  and  of  peace, 
Come  hither,  then,  and  greet  my  worshippers. 

( The  Spirits  of  the  Winds,  Fire  and  Time  descend 
from  the  upper  stage,  and  gather  before  the  Spirit  of 
Bohemia.) 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

(Addressing  Tree-Spirits.) 

Ye  have  beheld  with  what  concern,  this  night, 
I  have  arraigned  the  foemen  of  your  house, 
And  made  of  it  my  temple.    Here  no  more 
Shall  pride  nor  strife  have  power,  but  brother 
hood, 

Joy,  and  the  strength  of  true  humility 
Cause  here  the  Golden  Age  to  dawn  at  last. 
O  Trees,  how  greatly  shall  your  ancient  calm 
Renew  the  hearts  of  all  my  children,  breathe 
A  fragrance  on  their  spirits,  and  make  strong 
Those  spirits  to  endure  all  ills  of  life! 
Years  shall  go  by,  and  ye,  my  priests,  that  meet 
My  gaze  to-night,  shall  pass,  and  sons  to  be, 
Heirs  to  the  light  and  love  of  future  years, 
Shall  sing  where  ye  have  sung.    These  very  trees 
Shall  fall  at  last,  and  younger  shafts  grow  tall 
To  keep  unchanged  the  beauty  of  this  vale. 
So  pass  they — unto  every  one  his  life.  . 

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THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

But  I,  Bohemia,  I  change  not  at  all, 
And  in  a  thousand  years  my  faithful  sons, 
Shall    thank,    with   grateful    laughter    at    their 

feasts, 

You,  my  first-born,  the  dear  sons  of  my  youth, 
Who  first  of  men  found  beautiful  this  grove.  .  . 
And  now,  O  latest  priests  of  mine,  arise  1 

And  we 

(A  prolonged  and  terrible  laugh  is  heard  issuing  from 
the  earth.  The  Care  Motive  is  heard  in  the  or 
chestra,  and  Mammon  appears  from  an  illuminated 
cave  in  the  hillside.) 

MAMMON 

I,  god  of  gold,  within  my  golden  cave, 

Have  heard  grave  blasphemy — seditious  speech 

Inimical  to  my  supreme  designs. 

Seldom  mine  ears  are  fed  with  words  like  those, 

For  I  am  lord  of  men,  and  when  I  speak 

They  tremble.     Well  I  see,  Bohemia, 

How  thou  hast  urged  as  traitors  to  my  rule 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

These  Woodmen,  late  my  serfs,  and  glad  to 
serve. 

SPIRIT  OF   BOHEMIA 
Thou  seest  not  all,  O  Mammon !  These  are  now 
Priests  of  my  woodland  fane,  and  have  fore 
sworn 
Thine  empire. 

MAMMON 

Thou  dost  lie,  Bohemia! 
My  power  is  second  to  no  other  god's: 
Ye  Woodmen,  late  my  sen-ants,  follow  me 
Unto  my  caverns! 

FIRST  WOODMAN 

Nay,  thou  god  of  gold! 
Our  hearts   are   pledged  to   purer   days   than 

thine — 
To  fairer  service  and  serener  joys. 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOH EM 1 A 

MAMMON 

Then,  miserable  ones,  your  bones  shall  rot 
In  this  far  place,  for  I  in  punishment 
With  massy  sceptre  shall  set  loose  your  souls 
That  so  defy  me. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

Those  are  burly  words: 
Let 's  see  what 's  father  of  them! 

(Mammon  advances  threateningly.  The  Tree- 
Spirits,  the  Spirits  of  the  Winds,  Fire  and  Time  rally 
around  the  Woodmen.  Mammon  pauses.) 

MAMMON 

(Laughing.) 

Ye   have   made   faithful   friends!     Wherefore 

my  wrath 

I  shall  forego,  and  that  I  may  regain 
Your  fealty,  I  smile  on  you,  and  blot 
Your  treason,  and  remit  all  penalty, 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOH EM I A 

And  promise  you  large  bounty  and  delights, 
If  now  unto  my  worship  ye  return. 

FIRST  WOODMAN 

Thy  pleasures  and  thy  punishments,  all  these 
In  our  refusal  have  a  common  fate. 
We  do  despise  thy  favors. 

MAMMON 

O  ye  clods! 

What  know  ye  of  the  splendors  of  my  reign — 
Ye  that  till  now  have  known  humilities? 
Listen:    in  midnight  palaces  of  mine, 
Music  shall  serve  you  at  the  gleaming  feast 
And  Bacchus  tempt  your  lips  with  all  his  wines. 
The  Seven  Sins  shall  bare  for  you  their  breasts 
And  lead  you  to  their  chambers.    All  your  toil 
Shall  end,  and  pleasure  clothe  you  as  a  robe. 
Ye  shall  go  forth  as  kings,  and  know  all  bliss, 
Beholding  nations  as  your  servitors. 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

(As  Mammon  speaks,  the  Woodmen  draw  nearer  to 
him  with  open  mouths  and  staring  eyes.) 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
What  surety  have  we  of  these  promised  joys? 

MAMMON 

What  surety?     This! 

(Mammon  strikes  the  earth  with  his  sceptre,  and  the 
door  of  the  cave  from  which  he  entered  opens  again, 
disclosing  the  interior  bathed  in  a  golden  light.  From 
the  cave  come  four  grey-bearded  gnomes,  bearing 
heavy  bags,  from  which  they  scatter  handfuls  of  gold 
at  the  feet  of  the  Woodmen.) 

MAMMON 

Take  these  as  tokens  of  the  bliss  to  be 
And  hasten  with  me  to  my  city  lights. 

(  The  Woodmen  stand  uncertain,  and  gaze  alternately 
upon  Mammon  and  the  Spirit  of  Bohemia.) 

MAMMON 

Imagine  now  the  pleasures  that  await! 

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THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

The  wild  wine  singing  madly  in  your  veins! 
The  white,  permissive  breasts!     My  splendid 

domes ! 

And  ease  unbroken  in  my  marble  courts  1 
That  heavy  ore  shall  make  my  livery  light, 
And  purchase  for  you  each  his  dearest  wish. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

Nay,  Mammon!  for  one  thing  it  cannot  buy. 

MAMMON 

What,  then,  cannot  it  buy? 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 

A  happy  heart! 

FIRST  WOODMAN 
Is  that  the  secret  of  thy  worship,  then, 
Bohemia?     Is  happiness  thy  gift? 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
For  lasting  happiness  we  turn  our  eyes 
To  one  alone,  and  she  surrounds  you  now — 
Great  Nature,  refuge  of  the  weary  heart, 
And  only  balm  to  breasts  that  have  been  bruised ! 
She  hath  cool  hands  for  every  fevered  brow, 
And  gentlest  silence  for  the  troubled  soul. 
Her  counsels  are  most  wise.     She  healeth  well, 
Having  such  ministry  as  calm  and  sleep. 
She  is  most  faithful.    Other  friends  may  fail, 
But  seek  ye  her  in  any  quiet  place, 
And  smiling,  she  will  rise  and  give  to  you 
Her  kiss,  nor  tell  you  any  woeful  tale. 
Entreat  her,  and  she  will  deny  you  not; 
Abandon  her,  and  she  will  not  pursue. 
By  gold  ye  shall  not  win  her,  nor  by  toil, 
Nor  ever  at  her  side  beholding  walk 
Save  in  that  old  simplicity  of  heart 
Her  primal  lovers  brought.     So  must  ye  come 
As  children,  little  children  that  believe, 


132 


THE   TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

Nor  ever  doubt  her  beauty  and  her  faith, 
Nor  deem  her  tenderness  can  change  or  die.  .  . 
And  I,  my  forest  priests,  am  kin  to  her: 
More  happiness  hath  any  day  of  mine 
Than  Mammon  holds  in  heavy-hearted  years. 
I  do  not  proffer  lives  of  craven  ease, 
Nor  tempt  your  hearts  with  vampire  luxuries 
And  scarlet-cinctured  sins.     The  gifts  I  grant 
Are  man's  high  heritage — clean  toil  and  sleep, 
Beauty,  and  all  her  voices  in  your  souls, 
And  loving  friends,  and  honorable  days. 
So  choose! 

MAMMON 
Yea,  choose! 

(As  Mammon  speaks,  the  gnomes  again  scatter  gold 
at  the  feet  of  the  Woodmen,  who  stand  in  momentary 
uncertainty,  then  with  unanimous  impulse  kneel  be 
fore  the  Spirit  of  Bohemia.) 


'33 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

FIRST  WOODMAN 

O  glad  Bohemia, 
Be  thou  the  master  of  our  happy  hearts! 

(Mammon   rushes   down    the   hillside,    the  gnomes 
gathering  about  him  when  he  reaches  the  platform.) 

MAMMON 

Bohemia !  thou  well  dost  know  that  I 

And  thou  are  gods;  that  these  who  know  my 

reign, 

And  those  that  serve  thee  now  within  this  grove, 
Are  weak  against  our  godhead,  nor  have  pow'r 
In  any  wise  upon  us.     Thou  and  I 
Alone  have  power,  and  thou  and  I  this  night 
Shall  battle  for  the  lordship  of  this  grove. 
Come  forward  then,  that  so  we  prove  the  will 
Of  greater  gods  than  we,  and  now  decide 
Whether  these  silly  men  and  trees  and  winds 
Shall  hold  this  spot,  or  whether  I,  supreme, 
Shall  smite  thec  down,  and  dedicate  this  vale 
To  desolation  and  unchanging  dearth. 

134 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
Mammon,  hold  not  in  scorn  my  followers, 
For  they  shall  see  thee  die.    Nor  deem  thou  they 
Abide  mine  only  servants — all  glad  things 
Acknowledge  me,  all  sprites  and  Bacchic  fauns, 
That  now,  unheeded  by  thy  grosser  sight, 
Do  throng  this  wood,  and  wait  to  join  my  train. 

MAMMON 

All  such  are  less  than  we.     The  combat  waits. 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
O  justice  latent  at  the  heart  of  things, 
Decide!     Send  forth  thy  vengeful  minister 
In  whatso  shape  thou  wilt.    Thou,  God,  decide ! 
(The  immense  owl  that  heralded  the  coming  of  the 
Spirit  of  Bohemia  now  sweeps  down   the  hillside. 
Mammon,  hearing  the  rush  of  its  wings,  turns  and 
dies  at  its  touch,  the  owl  simultaneously  disappear- 


135 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

SPIRIT  OF  BOHEMIA 
The  will  of  the  Inexorable  is  shown. 
Wherefore,  ye  priests  and  worshippers  of  mine, 
Approach  with  me,  that  I  may  now  reveal 
Great  Mammon's  secret.     Draw  ye  close,  and 

gaze 
Upon  those  features. 

( The  Spirit  of  Bohemia,  together  with  the  First  and 
Second  Wood-Spirits  and  First  and  Second  Wood 
men,  and  the  Spirits  of  Fire,  Time  and  the  Winds, 
mount  the  lower  hillside  and  gather  about  the  body 
of  Mammon.) 

See,  betraying  Death 

Hath  changed  that  visage,  and  proclaims  to  all 
That  where  high  Mammon  stood  and  shook  his 

mace, 

There,  masked  in  undisclosing  gold,  stood  Care ! 
But  come,  O  friends,  and  hale  his  body  hence. 
Thou,  Fire,  shalt  have  thine  utmost  will  of  him, 
Till  ye,  O  Winds,  make  merry  with  his  dust. 

136 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BOHEMIA 

(A  march  is  played  by  the  orchestra,  and  a  proces 
sion  of  Bohemians  in  robes  of  red,  white  and  black 
descends  the  hillside  slowly.  They  carry  torches,  and 
a  bier  covered  with  a  pall.  As  they  reach  the  point 
at  which  the  body  of  Mammon  lies,  the  march  merges 
into  the  Final  Chorus,  which  is  sung  by  the  Wood- 
Spirits  and  Woodmen.  As  this  comes  to  a  close  the 
hillside  is  brilliantly  illuminated,  the  body  of  Mam 
mon  is  placed  on  the  bier  and  the  procession  forms 
for  the  Cremation  of  Care.) 


FINIS. 


137 


-r 


H  DAY  USE 

"URN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


0  / 1969 


TJPFTz  7 


(El602glO)476B 


.General  Library 

University  of  CaJifornia 

Berkeley 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 

Illl  III  I  III  1 1  ill  II II II 


